The Pilot's Pathologist
by whytejigsaw
Summary: My first crossover fic, based on an idea of Theprivatelifeofsherlockholmes' idea: Sherlock adopts the persona of Martin Crieff, a charter pilot who travels frequently, to fulfill his task of destroying Moriarty's network. His work is progressing quite satisfactorily until Molly Hooper shows up on GERTI...
1. Aberdeen

Molly and Sherlock stood awkwardly in front of each other.

"Well," he said.

"Time for you to go?"

"Yes. Thank you for your help."

"How long will you be gone?" asked Molly, stalling.

"Impossible to say. But I will come back."

She nodded. A car beeped outside.

"That's my lift."

She rushed over and hugged Sherlock, awkwardly throwing her arms around his waist. He allowed the hug, patting her on the back before gently disengaging, then left quickly.

Molly stood in her living room wondering if she would ever see him again.

Sherlock sat into the car. Mycroft was in the back.

"The documents?"

Mycroft handed over a travel wallet.

"Passport, birth cert, driving licence, pilot's licence, etc. We're en route to my warehouse, where staff will transform your appearance. Are you sure this is the way you want to go?"

"I told you: it's a perfect cover. As a charter pilot, I can go anywhere with ease. When we're not working, the man with a van gig will provide transport and convenience in London."

"Fine. The company is called MJN Air. The owner is a bossy older woman called Carolyn Knapp-Shappey. Your co-pilot and first officer is Douglas Richardson: I think you'll enjoy him. The final crew member is Arthur Shappey, son of Carolyn. He's a harmless soul, very biddable. You'll be flying out of Fitton airfield. The dossier will tell you everything else. I understand now why you spent all that time learning to fly a plane."

"Good."

"Sherlock..."

"It's fine...what's done is done. I'm sure I would have talked about you if our roles had been reversed."

"Ok."

"Look after them for me. Molly too."

"I will."

The car pulled up at the warehouse. Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, tall, dark and handsome, wearing his signature Belstaff coat and scarf entered. Four hours later, sporting short auburn hair, coloured contact lenses, wearing a polyester pilot's uniform and hat with an abundance of gold braiding, Captain Martin Crieff of MJN air emerged. He got into an old transit van. Icarus Removals was written on the side. Martin drove to 22 Oakdale Avenue, just outside Fitton and parked outside. Using newly cut keys, he entered the house. Two guys and a girl sat lounging in front of a tv watching Pointless. The host, Alexander Armstrong, asked "Ok, so we want elements on the periodic table that do not end in –ium."

"Mercury," said one guy, triumphant.

"Copper," said the girl.

"Argon, Bismuth, Boron, Carbon, Gold, Iodine, Tin, Xenon, Zinc…there are several more but those should be pointless enough," said Martin, to general amazement.

"I'm Martin Crieff, your new flatmate," he added.

The guy who hadn't spoken stood up and held out his hand. Sherlock did not shake hands, but Martin was more than willing to get along with everyone.

"I'm David, that's Susan and this idiot here is Nigel. We all go to the local agricultural college."

"Aren't you a bit old for a house share?" asked Nigel the idiot.

"Well, maybe, but I'm short on cash. It's the attic room, right?"

"Yep," confirmed Susan. "Can we help you with your stuff?"

"No, thanks. I haven't got much. I'll be gone a lot: I'm a pilot, so I work funny hours."

"Oooh, that's exciting."

"Yeah, I love it."

Martin abruptly left the room and headed upstairs.

"What a funny guy," exclaimed David, as Richard Osman confirmed that almost all his answers were pointless.

A year passed. Sherlock settled into his new persona – hapless pilot by day, sometimes man with a van, and frequent rounder-up of Moriarty's cohorts. Mycroft kept in touch via previously arranged channels. Anthea booked regular hair appointments to maintain his auburn locks.

"Alright, Martin, geographical features that sound like music groups. Rolling Stones is a given."

"Right, geographical features. Em, oh, what about Le Cirque?" said Martin brightly.

"By which you mean the starting point of a glacier…yes, good one. The Moraines."

"Yes, I like it."

Arthur bustled in.

"Hi chaps. Mum says are we nearly there?"

"Arthur, have you heard the Captain or myself make the announcement about starting our descent?"

"No."

"Then what do you think?"

"I don't know but Mum wants to know are we nearly there."

"Arthur, we're about 10 minutes from starting descent into Aberdeen, so about 30 minutes from landing. Will that do?"

"Thanks, skip."

"Douglas: The 3 Levees."

"Oh excellent. We're never playing this one again, you're actually not bad at it. Ox Bow Lake?"

"A bit obvious, don't you think?"

"Yes, it is a bit."

"Think I'll just pop out to the loo before we start the descent," said Martin.

"Ok, I have control."

Martin unbuckled his seatbelt and reached for his hat.

"Don't forget the hat, now, wouldn't want any of the passengers to think you were some other member of the crew!"

Martin opened the flight deck door. The toilet was situated directly to the right and as he reached out to grab the handle, the door opened and a young woman came out, walking right into him.

"Oh, oh, I'm so sorry." She blushed furiously and looked up at him. _Woah._

"Sherlock?!"

Martin blushed "Er, sorry, my fault, I'm Captain Martin, Captain Martin Crieff."

"Sorry," she said again, "you reminded me of someone I used to know for a moment, but now that I look again, he's much taller than you."

Sherlock was both furious and relieved that his cover wasn't blown. How the hell had Molly Hopper ended up on his plane? Mycroft should have warned him, if not stopped her outright.

"Are you really the captain?" she asked.

"Yes!" he snapped. She'd obviously hit a sore spot.

Suddenly became aware that they were still standing very close to each other and Molly moved away.

"Well, I'll just get back to my seat. I expect we'll be landing soon?"

"Yes," replied Martin, rather uselessly.

She smiled and turned back towards the seats.

Sherlock locked himself into the loo and briefly leaned his head against the door. His mind was awash with emotion and questions. How was everyone? Was she ok? She looked well. Why was she going to Aberdeen? He longed to call Mycroft immediately but they had agreed to only speak by phone out of arranged times only in the direst of emergencies and being flustered by the reappearance of The Woman Who Counted was not one of them. When did she acquire capital letters?

Martin returned to the flight deck.

"Ah there you are. ATC was on: we have to hold before descending, Aberdeen's a bit backed up."

"Right. Er: sedimentary rock?"

"Cheating…" replied Douglas.

Out in the cabin, Arthur was collecting rubbish.

"Any rubbish, madam?"

"Excuse me, do you know the captain well?" asked the long-haired woman in 3A.

"Skip? Yes, I'm one of his best friends," said Arthur proudly.

"Is he seeing anyone?"

"I'm sure he sees lots of people. Pilots have to have excellent eyesight."

"No, I meant does he have a girlfriend?"

"Oh! No. No one since the princess."

"The princess?"

"Yes, Skip went out with Princess Theresa of Lichtenstein for a couple of months but the long distance thing just didn't work for them."

"Goodness," said Molly, as Arthur walked away.

There had been a time when Molly was forward and asked men out but the presence and then absence of a certain consulting detective in her life had stopped all that. Perhaps it was time to get back on the horse. Something about the furious blushing and the hint of indignation had been surprisingly endearing.

"The captain has now switched off the seatbelt signs and cabin crew will have the door open shortly. Please remember to check the overhead lockers for your possessions. Thank you for flying MJN Air."

Molly stood up and put on her coat. Aberdeen's weather didn't look terribly friendly. She was determined to wait and see Martin again. Her perseverance was soon rewarded as he and an older co-pilot came out from the flight deck. She hurried up the cabin to join them.

"Oh hello again, Martin. I didn't introduce myself before: I'm Dr Molly Hooper. "

"Hello…this is my first officer, Douglas Richardson."

"Charmed. I'll wait for you outside," said Douglas significantly. Martin shot him a look of "don't leave me" but sadly Douglas chose not to see it.

"I wanted to apologise for earlier. Could I buy you a coffee in the airport?" asked Molly.

"Oh, don't you have to be somewhere?"

"Not until tomorrow morning – I'm here for work but they needed me first thing, so I had to come up this evening."

Martin and Sherlock struggled with the notion. Sherlock was desperate to hear news of home. Martin was terrified of women. Sherlock won.

"Yes, ok. Did you want to go right now? Only I've got some paperwork to file."

"Right, well, shall I meet you in half an hour at the arrivals gate then?"

"Fine. Right. I'll just go do that then."

"Great."

She stood there, as if waiting for him to say something more.

"Do you want to get off with me then? I mean, get off the plane?"

"Yes," she said with a small smile.

Martin followed her down the stairs and joined Douglas at the bottom.

"Ok, see you later then," said Molly and turned towards the terminal.

"Bye."

"Martin!"

"It's nothing, Douglas. Nothing to see here at all."

"I believe you are well on your way to a polo team."

"Oh shut up."


	2. Bakewell Tarts

**Chapter 2: Bakewell Tarts**

**Thanks for the reviews and follows so far. Thanks to Thinkswithpen for betaing. A public service announcement about the SAMFAs (Sherlock and Molly fan fiction awards). Nominations open on 13****th**** May and you can vote by submitting a story via the sherlolly website.**

Molly waited for Martin in the arrivals hall. She had spotted a coffee shop called "Bakewell Tarts" in the far corner.

Sherlock watched, unseen. She did look well, more confident, perhaps because of her new job. For all his acting skills, this conversation was going to be a challenge, not just to keep up being Martin but to pretend he didn't already know much of what she would tell him. The urge to ask questions would have to be quelled too. He took a deep breath and approached her.

"Hi Molly."

"Martin! I was about to give up on you."

"Oh, I'm sorry, filing the flight plan took longer than I expected. Do you still want to have coffee?"

"Of course I do – I see there's a place over in the corner."

Molly watched as Martin put sugar into his coffee. "Just the one, I'm trying to cut down," he joked.

"Do you drink a lot of coffee then, in your job?"

"Yes, being wide awake is really important, you know, for pilots," said Martin. Oh god, what am I saying? he thought.

"I'd imagine so," she replied seriously.

"And what kind of doctor are you?"

"I'm a pathologist – I'm based in St Bartholomew's Hospital in London but I've recently been promoted and now I'm something of a consulting pathologist for smaller hospitals."

"So they call you in when they get a funny death?"

"Exactly. It's pretty exciting. Sometimes I think they made up the job for me – it's like something you'd see on tv! But I'm sure your job is really varied too."

Sherlock thought about the 2 guys he'd apprehended last week in Newcastle and the nasty bruise he still had on his arm.

"Somewhat. I never know where I'll be going next."

He fiddled with a signet ring on his left little finger. Molly noticed and grabbed his hand.

"Oh that's lovely! I love men wearing jewellery – never understand why women have the monopoly on it."

Martin flushed at her touch.

"Thanks. It's my Dad's. He's dead. I mean, so obviously, it's not his anymore. He left it to me. I never take it off."

In truth, it had a tracking device that Mycroft had insisted he wear – just in case.

Molly gave his hand a squeeze.

"I'm sorry. My Dad's dead too. It's shit, isn't it?"

"I guess. He didn't want me to be a pilot – thought it was a pipe dream."

"You won in the end…even if he doesn't know it."

Martin smiled.

"So where do you live then? Is it somewhere exotic?" teased Molly.

"Exotic Fitton – close to the air field."

Molly twirled a piece of her hair – it was shorter now, more styled.

"Do you ever get any time off? Maybe we could meet up."

Sherlock had no idea what he was saying to attract this attention – he was at best monosyllabic. He should say no. It was sensible. Stay away from her…

"I do a bit," replied Martin. "Do you like air museums?"

"Er, I don't know? Maybe?"

Gosh, what a thing to ask! He really needed to come up with a new date idea – it wouldn't necessarily work on every woman. What the hell was he even thinking? The moment he'd adopted Martin, he suddenly spent a lot more time thinking about women and sex. The timing was terrible: the last thing he needed was a distraction like this….and yet, she looked so friendly and dammit, he missed her. The more detached part of Sherlock wondered how long he could fool her too.

"Fantastic, I mean, great, I mean, that's good…I'll call you to arrange," he said, getting up.

"Martin? Aren't you forgetting something?"

He looked at the table, no, he had his hat.

"You might need my phone number if you're going to call me."

Shit.

There was no point admitting he had her number memorised, along with her address, measurements and (presumably now out of date) work timetable.

"Silly me…here, I've got a pen."

Martin's pen had been in his top pocket for a while and when he removed the lid, the ink leaked out over his hand.

"Damn!"

"Oh here," Molly dabbed a napkin, which managed to get ink all over her hand too.

"Well, now we match! We're obviously perfect for each other," she joked, and then coloured. "Sorry! What a thing to say. We seem to be tumbling over each other, I mean over each other's words. Let's start again."

She held out her hand, now stained with blue ink.

"I'm Molly Hooper, I've been known to make an idiot of myself around cute men."

Martin took her hand to shake, his matching ink stain touching hers. He was more than a little tongue-tied.

"I'm M-martin Crieff. Nice to see you again. I mean, not again, but you know…"

Molly reached into her handbag and retrieved her phone. "Ok, call out your number and I'll just ring you, then you'll have mine too."

Martin called it out and she rang. Just as it began to ring, he realised that he had the same ringtone as in another life. Molly's eyes widened at the sound.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing…a friend used to have that ringtone…I suppose it's common enough."

"It's a generic one. Was he a – your boyfriend?" The inner Sherlock cringed at such a ridiculous question.

"No, he was my everything…but it was a different life, and I'm over it."

That was both sweet and bitter; Sherlock realised he needed to get away from her right away before she melted his deliberately cold heart even further.

"Oh, look is that the time, I've got to run. I'll call you, bye."

He ran off before she could say anything in response, with no intention of calling her. It seemed Sherlock was still in there after all.


	3. Croydon

**Chapter 3: Croydon**

Molly came back from Aberdeen after 2 days and made her way to her little house in Croydon. It was, admittedly, quite far from St Barts but easy enough on public transport. She'd moved from her previous flat not long after Sherlock's fall. Her house was tiny but perfect: a little redbrick turn of the century terraced house with a small patch of garden at the back, 2 bedrooms and a big bright kitchen. She'd filled it with books and retro 1950s furniture and film posters. Now she had a garden and a cat flap, Toby could come and go as he pleased, which meant Molly was a bit freer to go away. She still marvelled about her luck in finding this new work within her job. It was Mike Stamford's doing. He'd suggested her for a job with Scotland Yard helping out with regional deaths that required specialised knowledge. It was so exciting, and took her to places she'd never been in the UK. In fact, it might even take her to neighbouring islands in due course…

And of course, she'd never have met Martin without this job. There was something so cute about his complete inability to talk to her properly. Was this what she'd been like with Sherlock? Why hadn't he found it endearing?! Ha, because he had the emotional range of a teabag. It had happened quite gradually: the referring to him in the past tense. Everyone else did, so it made sense that she go along with it. Easier to avoid slip-ups. Naturally she hadn't heard from him since he left. Mycroft had dropped in once, to congratulate her on her new job, which disturbingly meant he was keeping tabs on her but they hadn't discussed the on-going project. She picked up a pile of post and was going through it when her phone rang: John Watson. It was a while since they'd spoken.

"John, hi, how are you?"

"Hey, Molly. I'm good, really good actually. I just realised between your new job and my hours at the clinic, it's ages since we've seen each other. Do you want to meet for a drink and catch up?"

"I'd love to…how's tomorrow night?"

"That's perfect. I have someone for you to meet as well. I've a new girlfriend – Mary is her name."

"Oh, that's fantastic news, I'd love to meet her."

"What about you? Anyone I should know about?"

Molly thought about a certain cute pilot – it was far too soon to say anything.

"Well not at the moment but watch this space."

"Intriguing. So I'll text you a location for tomorrow, yeah?"

"Great, looking forward to it."

She rang off. It was about time John started to move on…who knew when Sherlock would return, if ever.

Martin sat watching afternoon quiz shows with his student flatmates. It had become their "thing" when he was home. Today it was Countdown.

"It's not the same without Carol and Richard!" complained Martin.

"Who the hell are Carol and Richard?" asked Nigel the idiot.

"They're the old presenters. Martin is 107, didn't you know?" explained Susan patiently.

Martin's phone pinged.

Make an excuse about a job and go out to your van

"Oh crap, I forgot I have a job – better head off," he exclaimed.

"I don't know how you keep your business running, mate, you're always arsing around here," said David.

"I get by," said Martin, as he picked up his keys and went outside.

Once in the van, his phone rang immediately, a blocked number.

"Sherlock, how are you?"

"Fine, Mycroft, what's the urgency?"

"Not on the phone, we'll have to meet. Come to the local B&Q and loiter in the garden section."

"Won't you look out of place in your suit?" Sherlock sneered.

"I shall be incognito, like you."

Sherlock smirked as he imagined his brother in a redneck check shirt and jeans, chewing on a piece of straw.

25 minutes later, Sherlock was in the DIY supershop. He was browsing the outdoor plants when he was approached by an old man, dressed in a shabby overcoat and pushing a trolley.

"Oh this is one for the family photo album!" cried Sherlock.

"Do shut up. We must be very careful."

"Fine, what do you want?"

"First, Anthea asked me to tell you that your next hair appointment is at Dyes N' Do's on George St in Croydon, tomorrow at 2pm. She wants to keep swapping it around so no one gets to know you."

"Ok. Mycroft, why didn't you warn me that Molly Hooper would be on the plane last week?"

"Straight to the point as always, and don't use my name! We didn't know."

"You didn't know something?! Call the Guinness Book of Records!"

"Alright, fine, yes, we knew about her new job, of course, since we arranged it for her, but we cannot anticipate when or where she will be called to help out."

"I figured as much."

"Did you talk to her?"

"Yes, we had coffee, she was delighted to see me, I told her all about our project…."

"What?" Mycroft's eyes widened in shock, until he saw his brother's wide smile.

"We did talk briefly. She didn't recognise me at all…I was almost hurt!"

"You must be very careful," said Mycroft.

"Oh for god's sake, I am being careful. There's more at stake here for me than you, remember?!" chided Sherlock.

"Fine. Right, well, that's settled. You won't see her again and everything goes back to normal."

"Really, brother, we could have had this conversation on the phone. I've missed Countdown now!"

"You have more important concerns than Countdown! Besides, you could always skyplus it."

"It's not the same watching it alone," mumbled Sherlock, as he watched the old man shamble off.

John was waiting for Molly outside the hospital when she finished her shift. He gave her a quick hug in greeting.

"It's so great to see you, John. You're looking well."

"You are too – I love the new hair."

"Thanks – I decided the time had come to chop it. Actually, I must make an appointment to get it cut again soon. So where are we off to?"

"I thought the Lamb & Duck around the corner, if you didn't mind?"

"No, that's fine…is Mary meeting us there?"

"Yes."

"So tell me about her. I can see from the way your face lit up when I mentioned her name that she's obviously someone special."

"She's a primary school teacher. We met through a mutual friend and have been seeing each other a couple of months now. She's fantastic."

Molly smiled warmly. She was genuinely pleased for John.

"What have you told her about me?" she asked.

"By which you mean, does she know about Sherlock?"

"Guilty as charged. I just don't want to put my foot in it."

"No worries there: I've told her everything, possibly in more detail than she ever wanted to know. So she knows how we met, what we did, that he killed himself, and that you used to work with us, and that you were mad about him," John got all of this out in a rush, his voice just catching slightly when he mentioned Sherlock's suicide.

"That's a lot."

"I thought it was best to be upfront….no point pretending I don't have some emotional baggage."

"Ha! You make it sound like you were the one in love with him!" joked Molly.

"Well, we all were a little bit…in an entirely platonic way, of course," he replied.

They reached the pub, so both found it easy to drop that particular line of conversation. Mary was waiting inside. John performed introductions.

"It's so nice to finally meet you: I've heard so much about you," said Mary.

"I hope it was all good things…"

As they settled in for drinks and a chat, Molly could see that John and Mary were well-suited and obviously very keen on each other. Mary was great fun and had really brought John back out of his shell. The evening was filled with laughter. If Molly were a betting woman, she'd guess marriage was on the cards. Despite it being Friday, they broke up early and Molly headed for home.


	4. Dyes n' Do's

**Chapter 4: Dyes n' Do's**

On Saturday afternoon, Martin arrived in time for his hair appointment and duly had it dyed. It had to be done regularly to hide the darker roots and he was thoroughly sick of hairdresser conversations. There was only so many times you could talk about your holidays. He'd actually taken to making up increasingly wild trips just to see what he could get hapless hairdressers to believe. Finally though, the torture was over and he was ready to leave. As he was paying, Molly Hooper came in to book her own appointment. Of all the hair salons in all of London…..

"Martin? Is that you? What are you doing here?"

"Molly! Hello. I was just getting my hair cut."

"Croydon seems pretty far from where you live…."

He steered her back out on to the street, where the nosey receptionist couldn't hear.

"Yes, well, my cousin's wife works there and she gives me a discount," Martin said, embarrassed.

"Oh, that's cool….it's just, it's around the corner from my house. What a coincidence!"

"Is it?" _What bad luck! When did she move?_ thought Sherlock.

"Do you want to come over for a cup of tea?"

"Er…." Martin hmmed while he had a short internal argument and then agreed to a short drink.

"Sure…I have to be somewhere at half 5 though, so I can't stay long." Best to give himself an out.

Molly led him down a side street to a row of cutesy terraced houses. Sherlock couldn't resist a question or two.

"This is pretty far from your job too."

"I know, but I wanted to put a bit of distance between myself and work. I used to do a lot of overtime, and now that I live here, I'm much more likely to leave on time and come home," she explained.

She opened the front door and gestured for him to enter.

"Welcome. You may notice a cat skulking around. That's Toby…he doesn't like most people but will probably just snarl and go away."

"Right…I'm not very good with cats," admitted Martin.

"Come through to the kitchen: the sun shines nicely at the back of the house."

He had to admit she was right. The kitchen was a large bright open plan room, obviously an early addition to the house.

"So where are you flying to next?" she asked conversationally as she made the tea.

"Oh, not sure. Carolyn, my boss, takes the bookings. She usually gives us about one day's notice, which isn't great in terms of planning."

"I can imagine it plays havoc with your social life," she sympathised.

"Well, yes, and my other job," he said.

"You have another job as well as being a pilot?! Whatever for?"

"Extra money," Martin looked a bit embarrassed.

"Right, well, always useful, extra money. What's the other job?"

"Er, I have a van and I do removals, stuff like that."

She nodded and waved a packet of Jaffa Cakes at him.

"Biscuits?"

"Yes please."

Toby the cat made an appearance. Now it just so happened that Sherlock was one of the few humans he liked, and he was delighted to see him again. Toby jumped up on Martin's lap and head-butted him in the stomach: the universal cat sign for "pet me".

"Oh my gosh! Toby hates almost everyone. I haven't seen him be that friendly since…well, in a long time. Toby, get down. Martin doesn't want to pet you."

She scooped the cat up off Martin's knees and shooed him out the back door.

"Sorry about that."

"It's fine." He faked a sneeze. "I'm a bit allergic to cats though, so hopefully he won't come back!"

Molly set down mugs of tea and opened the packet of biscuits. Martin suddenly realised he hadn't had any breakfast, never mind lunch and dived on them.

"Do you ever have to work weekends yourself?" he asked.

"Not since I took on this new job. In fact, I mainly work 9-5 at the morgue now. It's brilliant – I get to socialise. Just last night, I had drinks with my friend John and his new girlfriend, which would have been unheard of before."

Sherlock choked slightly hearing John's name.

"Crumb down the wrong way!"

"Are you ok? I am a doctor…" she said with a wink.

"Yes, fine. So were you vetting this new girlfriend?"

"Er, sort of. I really liked her. I'd said there'll be wedding bells before long."

Martin had reached the point of extended politeness about people he didn't know but Sherlock had not.

"Maybe we can all go out some time."

"Sure, I guess."

"I mean, presuming you want to," he said, pulling a rather stricken look.

"Oh I do, I do. Just might be a bit weird. Might as well tell you. John's former flatmate, well, I used to have a bit of thing for him. Anyway, he's not around anymore, so both John and I might find it a bit weird. Everyone knew but it was totally unrequited."

"I'm sure it wasn't," said Martin.

"What do you mean? No, I'm afraid he was totally uninterested."

Martin felt there was an opportunity. He put his hand over Molly's on the table and gave it a small squeeze.

"His loss is my gain then."

Molly gave him an uncomfortable smile and extricated her hand. Was she really not used to compliments? After all that work he'd put in complimenting her over the years…

"Why don't you give me a call when you know your schedule for the next week and we can plan to go out for a drink?" she asked.

"I will," said Martin, while his alter ego said he would not. He needed to cut this off now before someone got hurt, and after all, wasn't this the point of the whole damn charade?


	5. East Midlands

Chapter 5: East Midlands

"Oh there you are Martin. We have to go East Midlands tomorrow," said Carolyn.

"What's the gig?" he asked.

"Small charter airline went bust: we win their passengers." She rubbed her hands together gleefully. "I think I might buy everyone a drink to celebrate!"

"How about giving me a raise?"

"Steady on, Martin…we're not making a profit yet."

"Will we need food on this flight, Mum?"

"Arthur, dear, it will take approximately 40 minutes from Fitton to East Midlands – I think the passengers can get by without a meal."

"Oh but I love offering them the options. You know "would Madam like the fish pie or the casserole?"

"Well, tough bananas, it'll just be a bar service on this flight. Cheap booze all the way."

"Really, Carolyn, on a morning business commuter flight? I think most of them will just read the paper."

"Valid point, Douglas, we might get away with not wasting any alcohol. Now what's the game?"

"Game? I don't know what you're talking about," said Douglas innocently.

"There must be a game. You and Martin always have something to play on the flight."

"Actually, it's my turn to come up with it, and I'm not telling until tomorrow. I don't want to give Douglas a head start," answered Martin.

"You mean like the head start you have by coming up with the game."

"Yes."

Arthur stood at the top of the stairs welcoming the small group of passengers.

"Good morning, madam. Good morning, sir. Good morning, small sir. Oh hello."

"Hello again," said Molly.

"And where are you flying to today, Miss?" asked Arthur.

"East Midlands, er…." said Molly, thoroughly confused.

"Perfect, because that's where we're going. Why doesn't madam sit herself down and shortly myself will do the safety demonstration."

"Great. Is Captain Crieff flying this morning?"

"He is."

"Could you tell him that Molly Hooper says hello and that she'd love to come up to the flight deck once we're airborne?"

"I certainly will, madam, but the captain is very particular about rules. Passengers are not allowed on the flight deck."

"Oh, ok," she said, non-plussed, as she made her way to her seat.

"Alright, Douglas, the game is nursery rhyme crime. Take a nursery rhyme and relate the crime. Example. Humpty Dumpty: obviously a scandal involving a high-level politician, whose career never recovers, despite the best efforts of media spin doctors and the government," explained Martin.

"Hmm…ok, I'll have a think."

Arthur came into the flight deck.

"Hi chaps, passengers are all aboard. I've done the safety instructions. We're ready to go."

"Excellent, Douglas, please alert ATC and we'll be under way shortly."

"Oh, skip, I almost forgot to tell you, Dr Hooper is on board and she wants to come up to the flight deck once we're underway. But I told her you were very serious about the rules and that she'd have to stay in her seat."

Martin flushed to the roots of his matching hair.

"Martin! Is that the doctor we met in Aberdeen?"

"That's right, Douglas, the pretty one," agreed Arthur.

"Have you seen her since then, Martin? I say, Arthur, Martin's been hiding something. Tell her we'll make an exception and one of us will come get her in a while."

"No, Douglas, don't do that!" said Martin.

"Why not? What's the point of being a pilot if you can't use it to attract women?"

"Something you'd know all about with your ex-wives…."

"Yes, and I got them all by impressing them with my flying skills."

"I thought you said you were very good in…" started Arthur, only to be cut off by Douglas coughing loudly.

"That'll do, Arthur. Now, Martin….how's this? Baa baa black sheep: the story of a drug dealer "The Black Sheep" and his lieutenants, the master and the dame and the plucky young lad, who lives down the lane, who is working his way up through the ranks of the organisation, and is secretly the Black Sheep's illegitimate child."

"Good, good. Let's get underway."


	6. Flight Deck Fancies

**Chapter 6: Flight Deck Fancies**

"Right, I'm switching off the seat belt sign now," confirmed Martin.

"Are you going to go get her?"

"What? No, I told you: I'm not inviting her up here for your entertainment. Anyway, I have another nursery rhyme crime for you. Jack and Jill: Jack and Jill Simpson, the celebrated married Democrat senators for Washington State, who go up to Capitol Hill, sponsoring a bill for clean water, which is defeated by an evil Republican conspiracy, ending in framing Jack for adultery, which ends both their careers in short order."

"That is an elaborate one. Do you know: I think I'll just see if Arthur might make us some coffee."

"Ok."

"I'm working on one involving the grand old duke of York."

"Looking forward to it."

Douglas left the cabin.

"Psst, Arthur."

"What's wrong?" he replied in a loud whisper.

"Sssh. Where's that nice doctor? I know Martin said he didn't want to see her but I thought it would be a good surprise."

"Oh, do you think so, Douglas? She's just down there in 7a. Shall I get her?"

"No, no, leave it to me."

"Can I come to see his face? When he sees her?"

"Naturally. I'm sure we can squeeze 4 people into the flight deck."

"Well, we did once manage 100 otters on the whole plane…"

"Good times."

Douglas made his way down the aisle and stopped at row 7.

"Excuse me, Dr Hooper, isn't it? We met last week. I'm First Officer Douglas Richardson."

"Of course, hello."

"The captain asked me to escort you up to the flight deck."

"Did he? I thought the steward said there were rules."

"Indeed there are, miss, but they were made to be broken, and if I may admit something: I'm an old romantic."

Molly giggled. Douglas was charming and she guessed he'd had a lot of success with women in his younger days.

She followed him up to the flight deck. He flung open the door and gestured for her to go in. Martin looked around as she did so, and the door closed behind her. They could hear a muffled "oh but I wanted to see…" from Arthur outside.

"Molly! What are you doing here?" said Martin, alarmed.

"Douglas said it would be alright. Is it alright?" she asked.

"Douglas would say that…well, you're here now."

"Gee, Martin, if you're not pleased to see me, I can go."

"Oh, no, I am, of course…but I can't get up: I am flying the plane."

"Is there not an auto-pilot thingy?"

"There is."

"Well, couldn't you put it on? A girl might like a proper greeting. Especially considering how sexy you look in that uniform, flying a plane…"

Sherlock wondered briefly if he'd overlooked some serious eye condition of Molly's…he absolutely did not look good in this uniform: it was meant to be about as sexy as Mother Teresa.

But he did put the auto-pilot on. And stood up.

Molly hurried over and threw her arms around his neck. The uniform might be crap, but he was still a head taller than her, which made her look even cuter.

"Hello, Martin," she breathed. Sherlock found himself wishing she could greet him properly. This enforced separation from friends, and hell, even family, was making him soft. But he didn't have much time to wonder as he suddenly found Molly Hooper's lips attached to his own. It was a greeting kiss, not designed to last, but still tinged with a promise of more to come in the future.

"I just wanted to get that out of the way."

Martin cleared his throat…"ahem, get what out of the way?"

"Our first kiss: I've been kind of obsessing about it and thought "best get it over and done with" and then I can move on."

Sherlock was all too familiar with the "moving on" school of thought, unfortunately, he knew it was futile.

"Has it worked?"

"Clearly not, I've still got my arms around you. Would you mind terribly if we had another go?"

"Er, I really should be flying the plane."

"Well, I wouldn't want to get in the way of air safety!" said Molly, with a brief pout and then she pulled back from him with a laugh. "What am I saying?! Of course you should be flying the plane…I'll settle for the promise of another kiss later?"

Martin looked relieved, as he sat back down.

"It's a deal."

The door opened.

"Is it safe to come in? Only I really should be doing my job?" said Douglas.

"Of course, come in, come in," said Martin.

Douglas squeezed past Molly and sat down. She stood there looking a bit useless.

"I'll just go back to my seat."

"Ok, bye," said Martin, already concentrating on the plane.

"Martin! What are you doing? I engineer you a lovely perfect "kiss the girl" moment and you're paying attention to GERTI?!"

"Yes, Douglas, I thought our other passengers would like to arrive alive at East Midlands rather than be glad I was getting a snog!"

"Perhaps."

"But as it happens, there was a kiss."

"Was there? Must have been a quick one. Details?!"

"She kissed me, if you must know."

"I must. And?"

"And what? Then I went back to being a pilot. Although.."

"Although?" Douglas was feeling a bit like an echo.

"I may be seeing her later."

"Excellent. Well done. Where are you taking her? I know a lovely little jazz bar in Nottingham…"

"We haven't made any plans yet."

"Alright, then we have 20 minutes to come up with something before we land."

"I really don't need your help, Douglas," said Martin snippily.

"You really do. Now, sit there and listen while I tell you the story of the grand old duke of York, who had 10000 men over the course of a decade…."


	7. Gathering Evidence

**Chapter 7: Gathering evidence**

"What about taking her to a ceilidh?" suggested Douglas.

"A what?" said Martin.

"You know, Scottish dancing, the Gay Gordon, strip the willow, the walls of Limerick, that sort of thing. There's a Scottish pub in Nottingham…."

"Firstly, is there anywhere you don't know a pub? Secondly, Limerick is in Ireland! And C, I am not taking her dancing. Or anywhere!"

"Calm down, Martin. I've never seen you get so worked up….no, what am I saying? You're this worked up on a regular basis. But I am wiser and more experienced, and if you don't want this one to get away, you'd do well to listen to me."

"Maybe I do want her to get away…"

"Of course you don't. You kissed her instead of flying the plane: from you, that's practically a marriage proposal."

"Anyway, we're not staying in Nottingham, we're going straight back to Fitton in an hour."

"That's true. Of course, London has much more opportunity for gallivanting.

"But she, of course, is going to East Midlands, presumably with an onward journey…"

"You may be on to something there, Martin."

Martin was only too glad to concentrate on landing the plane.

"Alright, Martin, turn off the lights on the way out, I'll go get us some coffee."

Arthur appeared.

"Hi chaps, short turnaround but no passengers. Can we play with the cabin address on the way back?"

"Of course, Arthur," said Douglas at the same time as Martin said "Of course not."

"Oh please? It's so boring without passengers."

"We'll see," said Martin.

"Oh yes, Skipper, I have a message from Molly. She says she's waiting for you to call about that date but that she won't wait forever…."

"Ok, thanks."

"I think she really wants you to call her."

"You got that, did you?"

"Yes, I'm actually quite good at understanding women."

"Indeed."

Once they got back to London, Sherlock was quite glad to have the day off. As useful as masquerading as a charter pilot was, he wished it was a bit more of a front and less of an actual job. With all the recent trips, he hadn't had time to concentrate on his real work. When he got home, the students were actually at college for once and he headed straight up to his room. As he passed the threshold, his whole bearing changed as he shrugged off Martin. He was always careful to keep his room locked, and luckily, this was common enough in student housing not to arouse suspicion. Inside the room, one whole wall was covered with notes, photographs, clippings from newspapers and red string linking them all to one central photograph of a spider. It was his visual reminder of why he was doing this, as well as an aide memoir. Slowly but surely, with a healthy dose of help from Mycroft and his people, he was dismantling the network, both at home and abroad. Sherlock stared at the wall for a few mins and, then kicking off his shoes, lay down on the bed.

His intention was to work out some knots surrounding twins who now worked for Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's lieutenant. The Henrikson twins were a brother and sister whose talents lay in the field of corporate espionage. They would infiltrate a company, get themselves into a position of some small responsibility and then start syphoning off funds, setting up whoever the target was to take the fall.

However, Sherlock soon found his mind wandering – not a common occurrence. He wondered about John's new girlfriend…would he have to learn her name or would she be gone by the time he returned to his old life? For the first time, he thought about how Molly would feel if she knew he was really Sherlock. It was pretty impressive that she hadn't figured it out…and yet, if she could be objective, she'd realise how funny it was that she could be attracted to him even when he wasn't himself. Though that was hardly fair to her. Sherlock could at least admit to himself that by adopting a different persona around her, he saw a different side to her. She was more confident without Sherlock Holmes in her life. Perhaps it was better for her never to know. But his traitorous libido had other intentions. Before he fully realised it, he had his phone out and was typing a message to Molly. He managed to stop himself just from signing it "SH".

_Sorry we couldn't talk for longer today_

Her reply came quickly:

_Not to worry: I'm holding you to drinks._

_And there I was hoping for something else!_

_Saucy! You're better at flirting by text._

_You make me nervous._

_Good. Meet me tomorrow night in Hampstead for a drink?_

_Ok._

_I'll text you the details later – should be weighing a spleen right now._

_Looking forward to it._

Sherlock threw down his phone and glanced up at the photo of the Henrikson twins. Suddenly an idea hit him…it seemed Molly could help him work without even knowing it.


	8. Hampstead Happenings

**Chapter 8: Hampstead happenings**

Molly had texted Martin to suggest a drink in Hampstead, but she had plans involving a walk around the Heath first, so she asked him to meet at 6pm.

Despite the plan of a casual walk and drink, she had changed her outfit three times. Martin was nervous enough without her making a big effort to overwhelm him.

Sherlock had told himself several times that he was going to bail on this date but when it came down to the crunch, he dressed in his most un-Sherlock outfit – old jeans, a Metallica t-shirt and a leather jacket, and headed out to meet Molly. Hampstead Heath was a lovely part of London, and he hadn't been up there at all since his alter-ego was born. In spite of his reservations, he was going on a date. No, Martin was going on a date. It was better to keep it in those terms and pretend that he, Sherlock, was not involved in this. There was no fooling himself though. Sherlock Holmes would never have engaged in this type of behaviour – certainly not before he killed himself.

Molly was waiting at the pre-arranged spot as he approached. She was wearing a light summer dress, runners and a denim jacket. Somehow it worked, and at least all her clothes seemed to fit her for once.

"Martin, hey," she said in greeting, touching him on the arm but not attempting anything more.

"Hi. You look very nice."

"Em, thanks. I thought we'd go for a walk around the Heath first?"

"Sure."

They walked in silence for a few minutes and then both attempted to speak at the same time.

"So how was your case in East Midlands?"

"What flights have you done this week?"

"No, you go first," said Martin.

"Well, then you should answer."

"Oh right. Nowhere particularly interesting. We took a guy's pet snake to Lyon."

"Gosh. Do you fly pets often?"

"Sometimes. We once accidentally froze a cat by forgetting to heat the hold."

"Oh no, that's terrible!"

Shit. He forgot how much she liked cats.

"It survived, miraculously," lied Martin.

"Phew…I thought for a minute…"

"No…no…"

"So my case was pretty routine. I don't think the regional hospitals get much in the way of pathology training."

"Well then they're lucky to have you."

"I suppose so."

"They must be. You're obviously brilliant in your field or they wouldn't have given you this job."

Molly smiled her nervous smile and caught hold of Martin's hand.

Hers felt tiny inside his but comforting. They stayed holding hands as they walked. Molly got over her blush at initiating the contact. Martin kept glancing down at their linked digits as if he couldn't believe what he saw and felt. They didn't speak much – one because she was worried she'd make a twit of herself and the other because fewer lies were easier to maintain.

"Shall we go get that drink then?" said Martin finally.

"Actually, unless you're desperate for alcohol, I was going to suggest a milkshake bar near here?"

"Sounds fun. Different."

"Or a really teenager-y thing to do?"

"No, I didn't say that. I like milkshakes."

"Ok." She seemed relieved he hadn't laughed at her outright. Sherlock was quite happy with the notion of no alcohol, much easier to keep up the act without it.

The milkshake bar was decked out like a 1950s American diner but had incongruously a large poster of Kelis on the wall. They grabbed a booth and menus. Molly sat beside Martin rather than opposite him. It was easier to not stare someone in the face all the time.

"I'm going to have a banana one, pretend it's good for me," decided Molly.

"I'm going to have chocolate and own the 1200-odd calories," said Martin.

The waitress duly brought their shakes.

"This is divine," declared Martin. "Best shake I've had in years."

"Can I try it?"

"Sure," he said, proffering his glass, but Molly shook her head.

She inclined her head and kissed Martin on the mouth. "Open up, I can't taste it on your lips."

Martin blushed – he felt sure all over – the pretence of a teenage date went out the window with a comment like that. Molly kissed him again and parted his lips – it was only polite really. She closed her eyes and let out a half-moan half yum noise. He had to admit the banana chocolate combination was pretty good. They snogged for a minute more before becoming aware of someone pointedly clearing her throat nearby.

"Pretty good together, huh?" she asked.

"Sure," Martin replied, a little dazed.

"I didn't want you to think this was an entirely innocent date."

"I wouldn't have dreamed of it."

Molly looked affronted.

"That came out wrong."

"I hope so!" But her tone said she was only mocking.

Molly took another sip of her shake.

"I was rather hoping to see a bit more of you."

"What?" squeaked Martin.

"Oh, that came out wrong too!" – Molly recovered some of her old awkwardness for a second – "I meant I'd like to go out with you again."

Here it was. The moment to say "actually, not really looking for a relationship right now…it's not you, it's me," which was even true. Or even to admit that he was Sherlock. But he couldn't do it. He couldn't risk the notion that she wouldn't forgive him for the deception. That she might not be willing to see him again. So he said the only thing he could.

"Can I have some more of your milkshake then?"

She gestured at the glass and he shook his head.

"I like your way better," he said shyly, looking at her from underneath his eyelashes.

"Maybe we should get the last bit in a takeaway cup then?" she said with a twinkle in her eyes.

They paid up and headed outside. Martin took Molly's hand and led her around the corner to a convenient alley, of all places. He took her drink from her and set them both on the ground. As he straightened up, Molly pushed him against the wall, stood up on her tiptoes and kissed him again. For a moment, he mentally struggled with how Martin would react in this versus how he would, until he remembered, somewhat stupidly, that he'd never kissed Molly in real life: she would hardly be comparing. He placed his hands on her hips and pulled her in close, as he slid down the wall a little so she could stand normally.

She emitted a most un-Molly like giggle and swiping her tongue over Martin's ear, whispered: "And I thought we weren't going to behave like teenagers…"

Their drinks sat forgotten on the ground until the next morning when a rubbish collector binned them.


	9. Ilchester Investigations

**The plot thickens….go on, admit it, you thought there wasn't much plot in this!**

Molly was back at St Barts on her regular rotation. The milkshake date with Martin had gone marvellously well but she hadn't seen him since. There'd been a bit of texting but it seemed he was off on a series of charter hops and was currently somewhere in Africa. As she had her morning coffee break, she read the newspaper.

"Idyllic Ilchester no longer"

The sleepy Somerset village of Ilchester is a hive of activity this morning as the body of a young woman, believed to be foreign, was found in a local cheese factory. Frank Philips, one of the factory workers, discovered the body when he opened up after the weekend. A post-mortem will be performed and the police do suspect foul play at this stage.

Molly had a feeling she might be on her way to Ilchester before long. When she got back to her desk, an email was waiting from Stamford confirming her suspicion.

Dear Molly,

The Avon & Somerset Constabulary have been in touch through the Met and have formally requested assistance with the post-mortem of a young women found in Ilchester yesterday morning. She's been taken to Yeovil district hospital. I've cleared it with admin here and you're to liaise with a DI Frances Duffield, contact details below.

Safe travelling!

Mike

Well, there was no excuse to fly this time: Molly headed for home and onwards to Waterloo for a train westwards.

Molly rolled her suitcase off the train after a long and uneventful journey to Yeovil. A redhead stood on the platform, smoking a cigarette. Her eyes widened when she saw Molly alight from the train. She hurried towards her stubbing out her cigarette on the ground.

"Are you Dr Hooper?" asked the woman, her high ponytail blowing in the light wind.

"I am. You must be DI Duffield?"

She nodded and continued to stare at Molly.

"Call me Frances. I'm sorry for staring. It's just…well, you look a bit like…well, you'll see. Come with me."

Molly followed her to a police car outside and threw her case in the back.

"We've booked you a room at the Yeovil Arms but I thought we'd go straight to the hospital."

"Ok. Can you give me the details while we drive?"

Frances pulled the car out of the car park and headed into town.

"Ichester Cheese Factory is a local employer. They were closed over the weekend. Frank Philips was first in yesterday morning. He discovered the body on a conveyor belt. She was naked and the murderer had piled cheese on top of her. It was grotesque."

"Sounds awful. What's the cause of death?"

"Preliminary report says strangulation with a cheese wire."

"That's more of a garrotting then. Why did you call me in?"

"We haven't had a murder in this town ever before. They don't even have a hospital."

"I'm not a detective though. I can only report on the body."

"I know. But there's something else…and I didn't know it until I saw you. This woman…she looks like you."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, she's darker skinned – we suspect Spanish or Portuguese – but she has a similar face to you, brown eyes, long brown hair. We have some guys working on her identity now – there was no wallet or clothes or anything."

"I'm sure it's just a coincidence."

"Judge for yourself."

"Who suggested calling me in?"

"Do you know I'm not sure…we were all standing around wondering how to handle this case…and someone mentioned your name…said you specialised in weird deaths."

Frances parked the car outside the hospital and they made their way to the small but functional morgue. After donning scrubs, Molly entered the main room where she was greeted by Dr Carl Austen. He too seemed surprised by her appearance but made no comment.

Dr Austen led the way over to the examination table.

"Dr Hooper, I should warn you, this may be a little strange."

"It's ok, DI Duffield warned me the victim resembles me a bit," said Molly.

He pulled the sheet back, exposing her face, neck and shoulders. It was not pretty but Molly immediately saw that she was looking at a woman who could be a relation – darker skin for sure – but the bone structure and face were quite similar. She struggled to remain calm and took a few deep breaths.

"Right, I see what you meant. Let's get to work."

After an hour's work, Molly stumbled out of the mortuary to get some fresh air. She reached into her pocket for her phone and scrolled down the list to "M".

Mycroft Holmes sat in his office in Westminster. His personal mobile phone rang and he arched an eyebrow as he saw that Molly Hooper was calling.

"Dr Hooper…I thought we had agreed only ever to speak on the telephone in an emergency."

"I know, Mycroft, it's very important."

"What is it?"

"I'm in Yeovil, called in to look at a body. She – the victim – looks just like me. It can't be a coincidence. The police aren't even sure who recommended calling me in…but they don't really need me – the cause of death is obvious."

"What do you want me to do about it?"

"Get Sherlock."


	10. Jamba

**Chapter 10: Jamba**

"Molly, I can't just get Sherlock to come investigate a strange death with you. He's not even in England at the moment."

"Mycroft, I'm telling you, I feel really weird about this – a bad feeling."

"I will send some real detectives down to investigate."

"Will you at least tell Sherlock please?"

"I will," he said, silently adding "when he resurrects himself". Mycroft wasn't going to be the cause of his whole plan failing by distracting him with trifles.

There was nothing more for Molly to do in Ilchester so she returned to London.

An instant message chat had been arranged with Martin for the evening. Molly signed into gchat at the arranged time.

Martin:

Hey, Molly, how are you?

Molly:

Fine. Where are you?

Martin:

Jamba

Molly:

Google says that's in Angola.

Martin:

Google is correct.

Molly:

When are you back?

Martin:

Late tomorrow. Why?

Molly:

I had a crappy day at work. I was called down to Somerset to look at a body which had been found in a cheese factory.

Martin:

Weird

Molly:

That's not the worst bit. She looked just like me but with darker skin!

Martin:

What?

Sherlock took out his mobile phone and sent Mycroft a text.

When were you going to tell me about Molly's double?

Mycroft sighed dramatically as he read the text from his brother. It appeared that he was continuing his ill-advised "relationship" with Dr Hooper after all.

Molly:

I know. It was pretty tough to see. I wish my friend Sherlock was still around. He would have swept into the place, deduced her name from her fingernails, and had the whole thing solved in time for tea. And he would have done it while looking impossibly gorgeous.

Martin:

….

Molly:

Sorry, that's terribly impolite of me – I shouldn't be daydreaming about the past like that. Certainly not in conversation with my current boyfriend.

Martin:

That's alright. Hang on, am I your boyfriend now?

Molly:

Yes, I mean, only if you want to be.

Martin:

I do…

Mycroft's message back to Sherlock was not helpful:

You have more important things on your plate right now.

Sherlock replied quickly:

It might be connected. Email me the details. I'm going to call Molly.

Martin:

I'll come see you when I get home tomorrow, alright?

Molly:

I'd love that. Do you want to call into me at work?

Martin:

No, it'll be evening by the time I'm back, so I'll come over to your house, if that's ok. My place is full of students.

Molly:

Ok. Sleep tight.

Sherlock idly paced the living room of the safe house in Jamba. He come there to find an arms dealer called Bulgakov who Moriarty had used for weapons training but the trail had gone cold.

Mycroft may well have disapproved of Sherlock's plan but he was still efficient. 20 minutes after their text conversation, Sherlock was looking at the autopsy report of Matilde Serafim, a native of the city of Porto in northern Portugal. She did look disturbingly like Molly. There was no way this was a coincidence. Someone was trying to send her a message, and therefore, someone knew he was alive.

He checked the time. Too soon after his text chat. Really it would be better to wait until tomorrow to call. He was only an hour ahead of London. Sod it. Sherlock reached for his untraceable satphone. The phone he used as Martin was safely back in Fitton.

Molly had just settled down on the couch with a glass of wine when her landline rang. It was an old style handset which didn't display the caller's number.

"Hello."

An instantly recognisable deep voice said a single word: "Molly."

She gasped audibly. She would know his voice anywhere but had the presence of mind not to say his name.

"He told you then."

"Yes. Are you alright?"

"I am – bit shaken. I thought it might be relevant. He disagreed but I thought it was worth telling you anyway. Where are you?"

"Best not to say. I've seen the reports. They've traced her name – I've arranged for you to be emailed the details. I'll do what I can – I'm sure it's connected to my work."

"Ok. Right. How are you?"

"Fine…no need to make small talk."

Molly sensed he was about to hang up and suddenly found she couldn't let him go just yet, so she said the first thing that came to mind.

"I've got a boyfriend. His name's Martin. You wouldn't like him. In fact, I shouldn't be telling you this: you'll probably look him up and then ruin him for me by telling me he's got a secret identity or that he plucks his eyebrows."

Sherlock raised one of his own in response to her comments. It was quite possibly the most surreal conversation he'd ever participated in. He took a brief moment to revel in the bizarreness of being told about his alter-ego's relationship with a woman who was previously in love with him…

"I'm glad, Molly, you deserve some happiness."

Molly was floored by the remark and tears sprang fully formed in her eyes.

"Thank you, Sh…that's very kind of you to say."

"I have to go…my brother will be in touch."

He hung up.

Molly tossed the phone down on the couch beside her. Toby gave an angry yowl as it hit his front paw but his human's mind was elsewhere as she thought about her former love, how relieved she was to hear from him, how his voice made her feel and decided that it wouldn't be cheating to indulge in one tiny daydream…


	11. Kensington calling

**Chapter 11: Kensington calling**

By the time Sherlock got back from the airport, changed and retrieved his van, it was quite late to be visiting Molly on a work night. He decided to check in on her anyway and texted to confirm he was en route. A meeting with Mycroft was planned for the morning, and then he was scheduled to work with MJN.

Much to his surprise, and horror, Sherlock had bought flowers for Molly. His inner monologue taunted while he went to the shop, while he picked out the flowers, while he paid for them, and now as he stood outside her door, suggested he should just quit while he was ahead.

Molly answered the door to a casually dressed Martin holding a bunch of red and yellow tulips.

"Oh, Martin, are these for me?" she asked stupidly.

"Of course!"

She took the proffered blooms and hurried to her kitchen to locate a vase. Martin followed her.

"I'm sorry it's so late."

"9pm is not late! I am a grown-up. Allowed to go to bed whenever I want," she added with a cheeky grin. The effect was slightly marred by the embarrassed look on her face as she realised her unintended double entendre.

Martin shot her an understanding look – they already spent entirely too much time apologising to each other for confused conversation.

She fussed over the flowers for a minute and then set the kettle to boil.

Martin had sat down on one of her high kitchen stools. Molly now made her way over to him.

"Do I get a kiss as well?" she asked, her hand on his knee.

"No, just the flowers."

"Shame," she turned away as Martin reached for her shoulder to pull her backwards into a hug. He swept the hair off her neck and planted a soft kiss just beneath her ear.

"I may have been lying," he whispered.

"I don't mind."

Molly turned in his arms to face him close up.

"Hey, I never noticed you wore contact lenses before. I thought pilots had to have perfect vision."

Sherlock scrambled for an answer, cursing himself for not having one prepared.

"Colour-blindness is the worst thing for pilots: a small amount of short-sightedness or long-sight is fine."

"Fair enough." She leaned over to kiss him on the lips.

"I'm too short for kissing you on this stool. Come into the sitting room." Molly pulled him by the hand and Martin followed: thoughts of tea forgotten.

They snuggled on the couch, while watching a couple of light-entertainment shows.

"So did you want to talk about what happened at work?" he asked casually.

"Not really. I held it together while I worked but was quite unnerved. "

"It's quite a coincidence."

"I know." Molly's tone said she wasn't quite ready to open up to Martin entirely. If Sherlock hadn't known her reasons, he might have been a tiny bit offended, but since he did, he was reassured by her loyalty. He pulled her onto his lap, squeezing her tight.

"Thanks. Being hugged actually does make it feel better. I admit I had a little cry about it all last night."

His heart went out to her at the thought of her tears for a similar-looking stranger, while knowing that she must be somewhat concerned at the larger picture.

"Well, hopefully not tonight," he reassured.

Molly turned to face him again and said seriously "maybe not if I had someone to hold - me while I slept?"

The shock must have shown on his face because she hastily continued "I just mean to sleep, I know you've had a long day, and this is not how I imagine us being together."

He nodded immediately, before realising he was agreeing to spend the night with her. Oh god, what if he talked in his sleep? What if she did? It was too late to get out of it now without insulting her: and she was in a vulnerable state.

"Of course I'll stay. I have a few errands to do tomorrow though so I should be on my way early – I wouldn't want you to think I was running away."

"That's fine, I have to be at work at 9 anyway," she said, relieved he had agreed.

"Do you have your glasses with you?" she asked thoughtfully.

"What? Er, no, these are the sort of lenses you can sleep in," he fibbed. He'd need to make sure they didn't become dislodged in sleep and reveal his true eye colour. It was already a miracle she hadn't figured out he was Sherlock but his eyes would give the entire game away.

Molly led him upstairs. There were two bedrooms and a good size bathroom. Her room was neat as a pin, brightly painted with yellow walls, pine furniture and white linen. Sherlock was unsurprised when she picked up her nightclothes and headed for the bathroom to change. He decided that sleeping in his t-shirt and underwear was the safest bet but also politely waited for her to come out of the bathroom to change.

She returned quickly.

"I left you a spare toothbrush on the sink."

"Thanks."

When he came back, Molly was in bed. Suddenly it was all very domestic. Sherlock never willingly slept in beds with other people. Martin, of course, had had a short relationship with Theresa but there hadn't been a lot of sleeping in it! He stood nervously beside the bed before almost jumping under the covers – something akin to ducking your head under cold water to get it over with. Molly immediately moved closer to him and cuddled into his side.

"Thanks for staying with me tonight, Martin: it means a lot."

"Of course, I want you to feel safe," said Sherlock, pressing a kiss to her forehead. She reached for the light switch and snapped it off.

Sherlock awoke early: it was bright but before either of them needed to get up. His eyes were stinging and puffy: probably red too if he were to check. He'd have to get these lenses out as soon as he left her place and risk walking around without them – not that it was much of a risk. Molly slept peacefully on her back, not touching him but close enough to feel each other's body heat. Her plaited hair had come undone during the night and it spread loosely around her. He hadn't slept much for fear of talking in his sleep. He wasn't aware of doing it normally but who ever was? Despite the earliness, he decided to get up. Sherlock was one of those people who, once awake, was awake and there was no dozing. He grabbed his clothes and went to wash up in the bathroom, and then went to figure out how Molly's coffee machine worked.

He was on his second cup when she came down, already showered and dressed.

"You're an early riser…"

"Well, strange bed, you know."

"Did you not sleep ok?" she asked, concerned.

"No, I mean, I did sleep well." He handed her a mug of coffee.

"Oh, coffee and toast all ready for me: I'm definitely keeping you."

"Well, unfortunately not right now, because I have to head off," he said awkwardly.

Molly took a large mouthful of coffee and swallowed quickly.

"Lovely…you already know just how I take my drinks. Full marks, Martin."

She came over for a quick hug.

"I'm working for the next couple of days but I'll call you," he said.

"Thanks again for staying. I think we sleep well together." She stood on tiptoes to bestow a kiss and Martin pulled her in close. He was getting far too attached. Pulling away quickly but not unkindly, he said his goodbyes and headed out to his van.

He drove off but as soon as he was off her road, he pulled over. Sherlock took out a ziplock bag he'd pilfered from Molly's kitchen and swiftly removed his contact lenses, revealing the icy blue of his real appearance. His eyes watered and he closed them for a few minutes to relax before heading off to Mycroft's house for their pre-arranged meeting.

Mycroft was waiting in his small study for Sherlock. His house had once been the mews property of a larger establishment in Kensington and he found it very suitable for his needs: close to work, functional and smart. His study was filled with leather-bound books and looked much like the rooms of the Diogenes Club.

Sherlock arrived earlier than expected. Mycroft took one look at him and set his mouth firmly in a disappointed shape.

"Where are your contacts, Sherlock? You can't just go around without them!"

"Mycroft, do relax, it was a very minor risk. I was forced to sleep with them in and my eyes were very unhappy about it. Between blindness and a tiny chance that I might bump into someone who thought I had a very similar eye colour to someone they once knew, now sadly deceased, I chose the latter!"

"And aren't we touchy about it? So you weren't at home last night, judging by the state of your clothes." Realisation dawned on the elder brother as a look of distaste crossed his face. "You spent the night with Molly! Really? You choose now to start having relations!"

"Not that it was any of your business, but I just slept there. She was very upset at seeing Matilde Seraphim's body. Can we move on?"

"Of course. You realise of course that her name is not real?"

"What evidence suggests that?"

"Well, perhaps the fact that you could loosely translate her name as _burning message from God?_"

A significant look passed between them.

"He's dead. We both saw his head blown off. There was no faking it."

"Rather like there was no faking a fall from a 10 storey high building, Sherlock?"

"No, Mycroft. I told him to come to the roof at Barts, he didn't know where I would choose…there was no way he could have set it up in time."

"That's what we'd all like to believe. Frankly, I do believe it. Nothing else fits. It must be someone else."

"Moran?" thought Sherlock out loud, then dismissed him. "No, not smart enough. Is it possible we've overlooked another lieutenant?"

"I'll have people check into it. Tell me how you got on in Jamba."

"Total bust. Bulgakov was long gone. Fire whoever gave you that intell."

"I can't fire MI:6! Well, not all of them. What's next on your schedule?"

"I've to check in with MJN – have to be ordinary for a few days."

"By which you mean, snuggle with the little woman," sneered Mycroft.

"Oh will you please drop it? Would you really deny me a small comfort when my whole life has been contorted by this maniac?!"

Mycroft opened his mouth to say something, and then thought better of it. He gave a tight shake of his head.

"Would you like something to eat before you go?" he said, extending the olive branch.

"No thank you, I ate yesterday."

"Some things never change, I see. Be careful, Sherlock."


	12. Lisbon

"Hi chaps! Ready to go to Portugal?" said Arthur.

"Well done, Arthur. Have you been brushing up on your geography?"

"Yes, ask me anything. I know all the capitals now."

"Ireland," said Douglas.

"Oooh, now, wait, don't tell me, I know this one."

"It's on the tip of your tongue, isn't it?" Martin suggested.

"You could say it's on your doorstep…" said Douglas.

"Mat? Matfield. Keyford?"

"You've just confused him now, Douglas," chided Martin. "It's Dublin. Honestly, Arthur, I think you might need some revision if you can't remember our nearest neighbour's capital city!"

"Right. Dublin. I nearly had it. Give me another one."

"Later, Douglas is just about to do the walkaround."

"Am I? I thought it was your turn, Martin."

"No, I'm not falling for that one again. And while we're at it: I'm having first dibs on the cheese tray today."

"Oh, are you indeed? What can have caused this newly confident behaviour? Arthur, I think something may have happened to the captain?"

"Do you? He looks the same as usual…though…"

"Though what?" asked Martin.

"You are looking a bit…healthier than usual."

"Are you saying I've gotten fat?" Martin's voice rose an octave.

"No, no, just that you used to be very skinny and now you're not."

"Domestic bliss suits him," teased Douglas.

"It does not!"

"Martin, when will you learn to take a compliment? Arthur and I are merely trying to say that you look happy and well-fed, which makes a change. This Molly must be good for you."

"Do you know what else makes people happy, Douglas?" said Arthur.

"Enlighten me."

"Sex."

"Really?"

"Yep, it's brilliant. Have you been having lots of sex as well, Skip?"

"Can we stop talking about this now?" implored Martin.

"Tell you what, I'll do the walkaround for you today," offered Douglas, as if he had thought of it all himself.

Douglas went outside, leaving Martin and Arthur, who looked like he might want to continue the conversation.

"So, Arthur, what's the capital of Germany then?"

"Oh, I know this one. It's Sweden."

"What? No it isn't. Sweden is its own country. Berlin is the capital of Germany! I'd get out the books again."

"Will do!"

Just under 3 hours later, they touched down in Lisbon.

Martin shrugged off his safety belt and stood up.

"In a hurry somewhere, Martin?"

"I've got a bit of work to do in Lisbon city centre."

"Oh really. I didn't know Icarus Removals had a Portuguese branch."

"Yes, we're all over now," said Martin, playing along in the hope of a quick escape.

"Shall I come and help?"

"Thank you, but no. I'll be back in a couple of hours."

"Right you are."

Martin disembarked and headed towards the terminal.

"Where's Skip off to?"

"I don't know, Arthur. Do you fancy finding out?"

"Brilliant."

"You'll have to follow my lead exactly."

"Brilliant! Are we like detectives?"

"Quiet ones, yes."

Sherlock was meeting with an SIS operative. No names were to be used but he was looking out for a man wearing a beige trench coat reading a book in English at a certain café. The meeting was facile in its construction, and made worse by Sherlock's appearance in pilot's uniform but he supposed it would do fine.

As it happened, he spotted his contact immediately. He was reading a book called "Fallen Angel". Sherlock sat down opposite him.

"Good book?"

"Sim. I mean, yes. You are him?"

"Yes. What do you have for me?"

"The victim's real name is Miranda Favela. She hadn't lived in Portugal for some time."

"Where was she living? What did she do?"

"She lived in Galway in Ireland. She was an artist who specialised in coastal landscapes."

"What else?"

"We know very little – she was not on the radar at all. No arrests, no convictions. She was last home for Christmas 2 years ago. She travelled with an Irish man called James Moriarty."

"What?" Sherlock was shocked. How could they have missed something like this?

The SIS officer slid a photo across the table showing a smiling Miranda – whose resemblance to Molly was uncanny, with a man. It was not Jim Moriarty. Or at least, not the one he knew.

"May I keep this photograph?"

"Yes. We have informed her family. They did not even know she was in the UK. We told them the UK police would be in contact."

Sherlock nodded, not really listening. This was too great a coincidence. Was it possible that Moriarty was more than one person? He had not anticipated this. He needed to talk to Mycroft asap. For now a text would get his minions working.

Investigate other men named James Moriarty in Ireland.

Mycroft responded quickly: why?

There might be two of them.

Douglas and Arthur watched as Martin seemed to have a serious conversation with a random man in the café.

"What's happening, Douglas?"

"No idea. I think Martin is up to something."

"Brilliant. Shall we leap out and surprise him?"

"No! We must bide our time."

"How do we bide our time?"

"Let's get back to GERTI."

Sherlock returned to the airport. When he reached GERTI, Arthur and Douglas were sitting in the front passenger seats, waiting for him.

"Hi skip. Did you get all your work done?"

"Yes. Are we ready to go?"

"Did you meet anyone, Martin?" asked Douglas, sounding suspiciously nonchalant.

"Er, I did. Why?"

"We wondered why you met that man in the café?" burst out Arthur.

Martin was horrified. They had followed him?! He hadn't noticed! He was slipping. _Think quickly!_

"I met an old friend called Ernesto. We were in college together. Just catching up."

"Really? What did you study?"

"Me? Chemistry."

"Chemistry?" repeated Douglas, surprised.

"Yes, 2 years, decided it wasn't for me, left, decided to become a pilot." Adopting an affronted tone, he continued.

"Why would you follow me?"

"We were just being detectives, skip. You're not annoyed, are you?" Arthur looked worried.

"No, not at all. Just would have liked some privacy."

Arthur smiled, relieved. Douglas regarded Martin, obviously still suspicious, but letting it drop for now.

"Let's get back to Fitton."


	13. Mount Merrion

Sherlock didn't know what to do first. Part of him wanted to hop straight on a plane to Dublin. Even though he knew Mycroft's goons would be on the case, he felt it was his job to do it. Part of him also wanted to see Molly but that was irrational sentiment and worst of all, he'd have to pretend he didn't know anything about the murdered woman, and be Martin. Bloody Martin! Martin who was sweet and kind and bumbling and nothing like Sherlock Holmes. The great Sherlock Holmes who could reduce sweet Molly Hooper to a mumbling mess with one smile. Martin Crieff had gotten more from her in 3 weeks than Sherlock Holmes had in 3 years. Sherlock was aghast at his own thoughts. He rang Mycroft.

"Mycroft. Get the plane."

"Where are we going?"

"Dublin of course. It's too delicate for minions."

"Just to be clear, you want me to come with you?"

"Apparently. And bring everything you've found already."

Mycroft cleared a sudden frog in his throat.

"Right, well, meet me at the usual airfield in an hour. We'll fly into Weston: fewer people to see us than the main airport."

But Sherlock had already hung up. Having reached "home", he quickly changed out of his pilot's uniform and removed his contact lenses to give his eyes a break. Donning new clothes and glasses, Sherlock hesitated before allowing himself a small affectation: his beloved blue scarf. It wasn't nearly cold enough but somehow it made him feel better. He paused to look at his wall of photos: the end was getting closer.

Mycroft was waiting at the airport when Sherlock arrived. He looked askance at his brother's appearance but said nothing.

"I presumed you didn't want to fly yourself."

"Correct."

Nothing more was said until they were buckled in and the plane was taxiing down the runway.

"What have you discovered?"

"Moriarty – our one that is – was born in 1978 in Dublin, only child of Helena Evans and Thomas Moriarty, both Irish, though she had a Welsh father. He grew up in Mount Merrion, a south Dublin suburb, attending a local primary school and a small private secondary school for boys called St. Mary's. School reports show he was unusually clever and often corrected teachers. He was expelled at 16 after an incident involving the headmaster's cat and did not complete secondary school. Our sources show no further trace of him in Ireland after this period. His name first became known about 5 years ago in London, and you know the rest."

"Are his parents still alive?"

"Unusually, no, they were both killed in a single vehicle accident 7 years ago. Gardaí reports suggest a genuine accident: the father's blood alcohol level was very high. However, it is most convenient for young master Moriarty that both his parents are no longer around."

"Indeed. They may well have been early victims. He doesn't like to get his hands dirty but he wouldn't be above arranging the murder of his parents," agreed Sherlock.

"And so what of this other James Moriarty? We start with finding out his vital statistics."

"Straight to the General Register Office then? Their records are not available online so it's the quickest way to get the birth cert."

The Holmes brothers lost no time on arrival at Weston Airport. A car met them and drove them directly to the births, deaths and marriages office, where an hour later, after some searching, Sherlock held a most surprising birth certificate in his hands.

"I can't believe it," he said.

"Well, when you've eliminated the impossible…"

"Oh don't quote me to me! James Moriarty, the son of Thomas and Helena, born 7 years prior to the birth of their second son. They were unmarried at this stage, and both teenagers."

"He may have been given up for adoption. There would still have been a fair amount of stigma for an unmarried mother in the early 1980s here."

"But how did the two brothers come to know of each other's existence? And why do they both have the same first name?" mused Sherlock.

"Also curious that the younger one seems to be in control of the elder," said Mycroft.

"Not so curious…."

Mycroft made a quick phone call and arranged for the adoption records to be checked. He was soon rewarded with details by email. There had been an adoption, arranged by the local parish priest, a Fr Liam O'Shea of St Therese's Church. Amazingly, he was still alive, though now living in a retirement home.

"Let's go and meet this priest."

Fr O'Shea was thankfully relatively hale for his octogenarian years and only too happy to discuss old times. After some pleasant small talk, Sherlock led the conversation around to the Moriartys. They were posing as distant English relatives in Dublin to trace their ancestors and any possible living relations.

"Ah, yes, Thomas and Helena. I never saw a young couple so in love. They couldn't wait to grow up, and of course, they didn't. That's how they ended up with young Jamesy, as they called him."

"So they didn't give up for adoption?"

"They did but they had him christened first. It broke their hearts to give him away but since they were just 17 and 16, it seemed the best thing for the child."

"Did they keep in touch with the adoptive parents?"

"No. It was your classic sealed adoption. Of course, when Jamesy turned 18, he could apply for his records. It would have been a challenge: the rules for getting access to these things are still quite cloak and dagger. What age would he be now? Early 40s I guess."

"But Thomas and Helena did end up married," prodded Mycroft.

"Yes, and they had another boy. Twas very curious that they called him James too, Jim for short. Of course, there's no law against it. In the 19th century, it was very common to call a child the name of a previously deceased infant – perhaps it was their way of honouring their first son."

"But they didn't try to retrieve the first son once they were old enough and settled?"

"Not that I ever heard. No, I've no idea what happened to Jamesy. I'm sure he was raised by loving parents. Perhaps it was for the better considering what happened."

"What did happen?"

"Well, Jim grew up very strange. He was expelled from school – a Protestant school, mind you, for torturing a cat. Nasty business. He went to England. You probably heard of him…he tried to steal the Crown Jewels."

"Yes. And the parents?"

"That was very sad. Car accident about 10 years ago. The roads were notorious then – every week a few people were killed. Thomas was fond of a drink and they said he was over the limit. But I never knew him to drive drunk. Helena was a teetotaller so I always thought it odd that she wasn't the driver that night. Anyway, God rest them. They never knew the tricks Jim got up to in England."

Sherlock and Mycroft made small talk for a little while longer but it was clear the priest had no idea what had happened to the first James or how he came to know his younger brother.

On the way out, they continued their own musings.

"Do you know Sherlock, the parallels continue. Moriarty has a brother 7 years older."

"Don't make me wish our parents had given you up…"

"So on to Galway then?"

"I think so. Let's check up on Miranda."

Miranda Favela had lived in the small seaside community of Salthill for a few years. Sherlock and Mycroft were driven there. The two hour drive was spent formulating a plan to pose as English police detectives investigating Miranda's death. Arrangements were made to get into her house and this was their first port of call, after stopping at the local Garda station to collect keys.

Miranda's house was a cheerful pink and white cottage not far from the beach in Salthill. The front door opened on a main room for all living functions. Doors to the right led to a bedroom and a bathroom.

"Look here," said Sherlock, pointing to a photo of Miranda and Jamesy Moriarty on the fridge. It was obviously taken in this house.

"So he came here. Looks as if he were a real presence in her life."

"What concerns me most is the extreme long term planning of this," said Mycroft.

"You mean that the Moriarty brothers managed to find and attract a woman who looked like Molly long before Jim began his antics in London with me? Yes. This must have been the contingency plan if Jim died unexpectedly. His death has kicked off this trail. I expect his brother will make it very easy for us to find him."

"True…but there is also the bigger picture: that Jim Moriarty always knew that Molly occupied a special position with you. He didn't go to the trouble of an assassin on her because he had a much bigger plan. I'm afraid she is in very grave danger."

Mycroft fired off an email to Anthea upgrading Molly's security. Sherlock chose not to discuss Molly at this time. Besides, Mycroft already knew it all. Saying it out loud would only satisfy his ego at having deduced his brother once again.

"Miranda's computer must have been taken in by local detectives. We can get those details remotely," he continued.

Sherlock leafed through an address book but saw no entries for anyone named James Moriarty, living or dead.

There was a knock on the door. The Holmes brothers glanced at each other and Mycroft moved to open it. A woman in her late 40s with wild brown curls, dressed in jeans and home-made cardigan stood before him.

"Ah hello, would you be the detectives from London come to investigate poor Miranda's death?"

"Er…" Mycroft was momentarily lost for words.

"Small village, word gets round. Maura in the post office saw you go in to get the keys. I'm Deirdre, Miranda's neighbour."

Sherlock took over.

"Come in, Deirdre. We're just following up on a few things. Tell me, have you heard from Miranda's boyfriend?"

"From Jamesy? No. I never had his number in London. Of course, I'd love to get in touch. I suppose her funeral will be back in Portugal but we were talking of having a memorial service down here."

"Had they been together long?"

"About two years, I guess. With the long distance thing, it was easy to forget she had a boyfriend."

"So you didn't see him here often?"

"Sometimes but mostly Miranda went to visit him. I think she would have preferred something more permanent but neither was willing to move. He'll be devastated, of course," she speculated.

"Indeed. When did she go to visit him last?"

"Well, the week before last, obviously, but she didn't come back after the weekend. I thought she must have decided to stay on a bit longer. With her painting, her time was her own so it was nothing to extend a trip like that."

"Did she make good money then?"

"Not that I know of, but she clearly had plenty of money in the background. I don't know if Jamesy was subsidising her?" Deirdre was clearly doing a little digging of her own.

"Well, we're looking into all aspects of her life. You've been really helpful. Thanks," said Sherlock, in a dismissive tone.

Mycroft held the door open to indicate she should leave…no doubt straight on to the grapevine. Neither minded, since they knew Moriarty would be watching.

After looking around fruitlessly for another 30 minutes, they came to the conclusion that there was nothing to find.

"So shall we head back home then?" suggested Sherlock.

"Yes, I took the liberty of having the plane moved to Shannon, so we don't have to drive back to Dublin."

"I think it has been worthwhile but clearly the trail leads straight back to London."

"I'll get my people working on tracing Jamesy. Shouldn't be too hard."


	14. Nice

Chapter 14: Nice

This chapter's unbetaed too but thanks to my book and dvd shelves for the inspiration.

Sherlock was tired by the time they got back to London, so he wasn't exactly thrilled to receive the following call from Carolyn.

"Hello, Martin. Where have you been all day? I left 5 messages."

"Sorry, Carolyn, I was unavailable. What's up?"

"We are, tomorrow. We're going to Nice."

"Are we really?"

"Yes, the man who wanted his snake in Lyon has decided it would prefer to live in Nice, so naturally he thought of us!"

"Are you seriously saying we're flying to Lyon to collect a snake and then bringing it to Nice? Why not put it on a train?"

"Well, yes, of course why not, but who cares because it means money for us."

"For you. Or have you forgotten again the thing where you don't pay me?"

"Right, yes, more money for me! Be at my house at 7am."

"7am?"

"I'm no longer listening, Martin. You'll be home in time for tea."

Sherlock sighed as he hung up the phone. Glancing at the clock, he realised there was just time to get to the opticians. After spending the night with Molly, he ordered special coloured lenses that he could comfortably sleep in. He told himself it wasn't that he was planning to sleep there again but best to be prepared. God, he sounded like a teenager trying to talk himself out (or into?) of having sex. Speaking of which, condoms. Though, she's a doctor, she'll have them…but still just in case. It's not like they were definitely going to… And just like that, he was pressing speed dial number 2 on his Martin phone and waiting to hear her cheery voice.

"Martin! Where are you?"

"I'm back in London after a long day at work," he replied. Not entirely a lie.

"Can I see you this evening?"

"I'm sorry, Molly. I've to work again at 7 in the morning. But I was hoping tomorrow evening…?"

"Er, yeah, that's fine."

"Do I detect a tone of "I had something else on but I'll cancel it" about you?"

"Well, since you've turned detective: yes. But I'd much rather see you. I'll cook dinner. Is there anything you don't like?"

"Mushrooms."

"Got it. 8pm tomorrow then?"

"I can't wait."

"Me either."

By 730 the following morning, Martin and Douglas were taxiing down the runway and headed for Lyon.

"Alright, I'm feeling like a classic game. Books, films or television shows which would be dramatically different if one letter in a word were changed."

"Like Drey's Anatomy?"

"Yes. I doubt they'd have gotten 9 seasons out of the floor plan of a squirrel's home!"

"While you were sheeping?"

"I don't think sheeping is a word, Douglas."

"While you were sweeping, then."

"A pocket full of eye – the classic Miss Marple takes a gory turn," countered Martin.

"The grime of Miss Jean Brodie."

"I've never seen it," said Martin.

"Oh but you must: Maggie Smith is divine, even if she is a fascist. And that reminds me. How is it going with the divine Dr Hooper?"

"Fine."

"So you haven't swept with her yet. Sorry, I mean slept with her…this game is addictive!"

"None of your business."

"A definite no then."

"But as it happens I'm seeing her this evening."

"Where are you taking her?"

"Actually, she's cooking dinner."

"Oh Martin. I hope you've packed your jammies."

"Shut up, will you?!"

"You know, sometimes I forget you're not twelve. You never learnt to taking good-natured teasing."

"It's strikes me that there is nothing "good-natured" about teasing. One person is always uncomfortable."

"That's why you must learn to be the teaser. You've already mastered being teased."

Just at that moment, Arthur entered the cabin.

"That's right. Douglas says you always go the extra mile. But he said I'm the next best at being teased: so that's nice."

Martin looked oddly at Douglas but chose to keep the peace.

"Martin was just telling me that Molly is cooking him dinner tonight…" Douglas said significantly.

"I love it when girls cook you dinner. It means they want to have sex, which is brilliant."

"And there you have it, Martin," continued Douglas.

As Carolyn had promised, by tea time, the snake was in its new home and Martin was on his way to Molly's. He had not brought his pyjamas.

She greeted him with a broad smile and a long, languid kiss that held serious promise. Delicious cooking smells wafted out from the kitchen.

"What are you making?"

"Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Should be ready in 20 minutes."

"That sounds amazing. It's ages since I ate a home-cooked roast."

"Why?"

"Well, I'm not much of a cook and I'm away a lot. Airline catering and takeaways… It does mean I'm not as thin as I used to be."

"Don't worry: you're not fat!"

"Thanks, I can look in a mirror too."

Martin followed Molly back to the kitchen where she poured red wine for them. It had already had time to breathe so the temperature was perfect.

"So how as your day, honey?" said Molly, slightly mocking the tone of "honey".

"Long and dull," said Martin succinctly. "Yours?"

"Ah, well, you may have forgotten this, but I'm a forensic pathologist."

"I had not."

"So my day is not exactly over dinner conversation…"

"Try me. I've a strong stomach."

Molly launched into a passionate monologue about autopsying old people versus younger people. Sherlock found it fascinating. It was almost like old times, except she wasn't stuttering around him, and he had his hand on her knee, making lazy circles with his thumb. He sat back and marvelled at the difference a year could make. After a while, he realised she had stopped talking and was now regarding him with a whimsical smile.

"Am I boring you?"

"Not at all…you are utterly captivating."

"Cos it seemed like you totally zoned out there and I was worried I had broken you with morgue talk."

"Don't be silly." Martin pulled her on to his knee and was about to administer kisses when the cooker's buzzer went.

"Dinner. I'll just go take the meat out. Don't go anywhere."

"I couldn't if I wanted to."

"Nonsense. You are a pilot…you could go anywhere you wanted…" she countered.

"Alright, but I don't want to."

"That is the right answer."

A few minutes later, the food was ready to eat.

"I thought we'd sit at the table like grown-ups. When I'm on my own, I eat in front of the tv."

"So do I but it's nice to pretend to be adults every now and then. I hear some even invite groups of friends over to eat in each other's houses," said Martin, playing along.

"I think they're called dinner parties. But I don't have the sort of friends who have them. They're all more of a "get drunk and insult each other" crowd."

Ouch.

"Maybe you need new friends."

"Perhaps. Let's eat before we get melancholy."

It was indeed the best meal Sherlock had eaten in ages. His current lifestyle afforded no time for effort with food. Once finished, they took their glasses in to the couch.

"Do you want to watch a movie?" he asked.

"No."

"Well tell me about some of your recent funny deaths," he said, hoping for further insight she didn't know she had.

"No…Martin, this may be the wine talking but I don't want to do any talking."

_Should have brought clean clothes for tomorrow_ was what Sherlock thought as Molly sat on his lap. He divested himself of his wine glasses and paid full attention to the woman on his knee.

"No talking?"

Molly laid a finger on his lips and shook her head. He sucked her finger into his mouth, eliciting a huff of surprise. Martin didn't look like the sort of man who did that kind of thing. But then, Martin didn't really exist and it was difficult to keep up an alternate persona when one was distracted by a beautiful woman.

Soon Molly was leading him up to her bedroom. It crossed his mind to protest that it was too early for bed, but only briefly. Clothes were disgarded. Molly switched off the light – he decided to ask about this later too. She clung tightly to him as they made love, crying out "Sherlock" twice as she came.

Both were wrapped up in the moment and neither noticed.


	15. Oxford Street

**Chapter 15: Oxford Street**

Molly awoke to the sound of rain against the window. She stretched a little and turned, remembering that Martin was beside her in bed. It had gone well. She'd been a bit nervous and turned off the light – it was easier to be bold in the dark. It wasn't the world's most perfect sex but it was encouraging: they'd both had a good time. He was still asleep, relaxed and calm. Not a snorer thankfully! She smiled fondly at him. This one would never break her heart; she was safe in a good way with Martin.

She glanced at the clock and decided to get up and make some breakfast. She'd bring it back up to bed for the two of them.

Molly got out of bed and put on her dressing gown. Wearing it over her naked and slightly aching body made her feel sexy.

She set the machine going while bread became toast. As Molly poured the black coffee into the two waiting mugs, she let out a sudden cry as a memory (oh god, please let this be a dream) from the night before returned. But there was no life rewind. Had she really called Sherlock's name out while having sex with another man? Oh shit. How had he not noticed? He was a better actor than she gave him credit for. What to do? Bring it up? Pretend it didn't happen? Shit. Shit. Shit.

Breakfast was forgotten while she paced the kitchen. With Sherlock's long absence, she'd lulled herself into thinking she was over him. But clearly not! The mortification: how like something a protagonist in a silly romantic comedy would do. This didn't happen in real life! The best thing to do for now was get him out of here as soon as possible: then she could think about what to do.

Molly finished making the toast and brought it back upstairs as planned.

Sherlock had awoken when she went downstairs but hadn't followed. His mind was a tumble of thoughts and emotions. He'd had sex with Molly Hooper. It had been lovely: not perfect but that would come with time. Of course, the fact that she thought he was someone else was beside the point. Yes, stupid hormones were definitely interfering with his thought process this morning.

The moment she opened the door he could tell something was wrong. She was doing a very good job of pretending otherwise but he wasn't the world's only consulting detective for nothing. But he'd have to wait for a more obvious signal before bringing it up.

"Hey you."

"Hey yourself. I made toast and coffee."

"Put it down and come here first."

"Martin! It'll get cold. Cold coffee is one of the most horrible substances known to humanity."

"Well, be quick about it then."

He waited until she put down the tray and then dragged her across his legs, holding her tight.

"This is lovely. Thank you for last night," said Sherlock.

Molly thought to herself that he really must not have noticed to be this cuddly the morning after. Was that better or worse? Best to proceed with the plan.

"So I have some bad news."

"Oh?" he replied, kissing her neck in a way that would have been distracting if she were not so set on her course.

"I've got to go into work."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I'm sorry. It couldn't wait and I'm the one on call this weekend."

"When do you have to go?" His hand slipped inside her dressing gown and caressed her thigh.

"As soon as possible. I'm just going to have breakfast, shower and then head straight in. You can stay in bed as long as you want – just pull the door behind you when you're done."

"Do you need help in the shower?" he asked hopefully.

"What?! No! You bad man," she laughed in spite of her inner turmoil.

"Alright. I've things to do anyway: probably shouldn't be lolling about my girlfriend's place alone."

Molly stiffened in his arms at the word "girlfriend". What was wrong with her? No doubt he'd discover it soon enough.

He reluctantly let her go and within a half an hour, Molly was out the door leaving Martin behind.

Once she was gone, he hopped up out of bed and in an uncharacteristic display of domesticity, changed the sheets on her bed, showered and headed off home to do some real work.

Molly headed straight towards her safe haven: Oxford St. Other people had religion but Molly Hooper shopped when she needed to think. She emerged at Bond St Tube Station intending to work her way down the street. She meandered around the perfume hall of Selfridge's while she worked out the exact problem.

Martin was her boyfriend and he was lovely.

She'd called out Sherlock's name during sex. Not just any sex but the first time they'd done it!

He hadn't noticed. Why hadn't he noticed?

This was the crux of it. Was she still in love with Sherlock Holmes? She just didn't know. Not having seen him in so long made two things easier.

She wasn't reminded of him daily and it meant she'd gotten on with her life.

But it did put him on an idealised pedestal. An absent Sherlock couldn't hurt her with comments and observations.

Maybe seeing him would help? Maybe she'd take one look at him and say "I'd rather have Martin". But was seeing him possible? It wasn't likely. Mycroft wouldn't even let her talk to him when she'd been in Yeovil.

So then the answer, it seemed, was clear. She'd have to break up with Martin until she sorted out her feelings for Sherlock. It wasn't fair to be with him and thinking of another man. He deserved better than that.

Two hours later, Molly returned home, laden with bags of new clothes she didn't really need. They had provided fleeting comfort from the unpleasant task ahead of her.

When she saw that Martin had remade her bed with fresh sheets, cleaned up her kitchen and left her a note saying he couldn't wait to see her again, she sat down on the bed and balled her eyes out.

**A/N: Sorry about the angst in this chapter. It's for a good cause: I promise!**


	16. Plymouth

**Chapter 16: Plymouth**

**Another short angsty chapter. I'm a bit heart-broken writing it!**

Molly pulled herself together some time later. The decision was made and it was best to pull off the plaster immediately. She packed a bag, deciding to go away for a couple of days to visit her friend Sharon in Plymouth. Throwing the case in her little car, so rarely used, Molly consulted her London A to Z, and headed for Fitton.

Sherlock had gone home after leaving Molly's. He couldn't get the stupid grin off his face. It was embarrassing to discover he was mortal after all; affected by a woman.

Susan, David and Nigel the idiot were, inevitably, sitting around watching television when he arrived.

A chorus of jeering greeted him.

"Martin, you dog, where were you last night then?" asked David.

"Clearly, he was with his girlfriend," said Susan, always the sharpest tool in this particular box.

"No comment," was the slightly smug reply, as he sat down on the couch.

"What are we watching?"

"Classic Who wants to be a millionaire."

They were all still there an hour later, debating whether it was too early for pizza to be delivered when the doorbell rang.

"How did they know we wanted pizza?" asked Nigel, still an idiot.

"I'll get it."

Susan got up and went to the door. There was some low voices and then Molly was ushered into the room.

Nigel and David gawped.

"Molly, what are you doing here?" Sherlock jumped up to hug her. Had he given her his address?

"Needed a chat," she said, guardedly. Her eyes, bearing tracks of tears recently washed away, telegraphed alone.

"Come into the kitchen." There was no way in hell he could take her to his room.

Susan strategically turned up the tv as they left the room, closing the door behind them.

"What's wrong? Work?" He knew it wasn't work…

"No."

"Do you want tea?" His face fell a little at her answer.

"No, thanks. Martin…I…about last night…I, oh god this is hard…I'm really sorry to do this so bluntly but I'm breaking up with you."

"What?! Why?" Ah, so this was what was wrong this morning.

She took a deep breath.

"You remember I told you about the guy, Sherlock, who I had a thing for?"

"Yeah," he said faintly.

"Well, I'm not over him. Last night, I don't think you noticed, but I called his name in bed."

"What?!" he repeated again dumbly. In his mind, he re-ran their evening, not for the first time that day, but now with a more critical eye. Oh holy shit, she said Sherlock when she came. And he hadn't noticed…of course, he hadn't…it was his own bloody name.

He looked up at her, horrified. He was completely torn but there was no way this could end well now. If he told her, then she'd hate him for the deception. If he said nothing, well, she was still dumping him for another man.

"Martin, I'm really sorry. This isn't about you: you're lovely and you don't deserve a girlfriend who is not over a dead guy who barely gave her the time of day."

"Molly, are you sure you want to do this?"

"It's the right thing to do. I need to clear my head. I'm getting away for a few days. Maybe we can still be friends?"

"I don't want to be friends."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Stop saying that!"

"Sorry. I'll just go. Bye, Martin."

For a moment, she looked like she might kiss him goodbye but then she turned and left.

Sherlock sat down at the table. He put his head in his hands. Someone came into the kitchen. They said nothing but pottered around. A cup of tea was put in front of him and a hand squeezed his shoulder. Nigel left the room again.

Sherlock allowed himself a small sniff. It was for the best. She was a distraction from the work. Now he could focus on finishing this nightmare so he could get back home. He took his tea up to his room, slammed the door shut and stared at his wall.


	17. Quantico

It was a few days later. Sherlock had gotten stuck into his project. Mycroft had been in touch, via Anthea, and he'd received a dossier from the FBI on some high up Moriarty lieutenants. He was no closer to finding Jamesy but there was plenty to be getting on with it. In the meanwhile, Martin was on his way to the airfield.

When he arrived, the door to the portacabin which doubled as their office was open, and the voices of Douglas and Arthur floated out on the breeze.

"I'm telling you, Douglas, something is wrong with Skip!"

"Nonsense. He's his usual self."

"Well, that's because he puts on a face when you're around…like a mask. But then, when you're gone, he looks all sad."

"Does he indeed? Perhaps we should continue our investigation. I tell you, there's something fishy about our Captain Crieff, and I will find out what it is, even if it kills me."

"But you wouldn't find out then."

"What?"

"If it killed you, it would be too late to find out…"

"Arthur, it's an expression! You can't take everything so literally."

"Got it."

The door opened and Martin walked in.

"Speak of the devil…Martin, how are you?"

"I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be fine?"

"I don't know."

"Where are we off to today?

"Nowhere, I'm afraid. We're on call in case Mr whathisface decides he wants to go visit his Caribbean island," grumbled Douglas.

"So we're just sitting in the office all day?" confirmed Martin.

"Yep. I've brought a deck of cards though…" said Arthur.

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Well, we could play snap."

"Or, we could pretend we were adults and play something for money," offered Douglas.

"Douglas, we don't have time for that!" began Martin.

"Don't have time, we have all the time in the world. I'll just get Carolyn. She loves a round of poker. It doesn't have to be money…it can be truth or dare poker."

"Brilliant! I love dares!"

"Don't be ridiculous: I'm not playing truth or dare poker or any other version."

"Alright, Martin, but we'll get the truth out of you somehow."

"Truth about what?" his eyes narrowed.

"Exactly."

Sherlock decided that perhaps some strategic sharing was worth it. Arthur and Douglas were way too interested in his extra-curricular activities and, with Moriarty on the scene, the last thing he needed was his cover blown.

"Well, I may as well tell you: you'll find out anyway."

"Tell us what?" said Carolyn, walking into the room.

"Molly broke up with me," he said, affecting a little hand tremble as he reached for the coffee pot.

"Oh Skip, that's terrible."

"Martin, what happened?" asked Douglas.

"It was all going really well – I thought – but she came to see me last night and said she wasn't over her last boyfriend. Said it wasn't fair to me," his voice cracked on the fair….an excellent performance. Of course, not actually a performance, but never mind that!

"Martin, it sounds harsh but she did the right thing. If she's not over this other guy, then she'd always be comparing you, and thinking of him, and worse. You'll be better off in the long run," said Carolyn, practical as ever.

"I know…but it doesn't make me feel any better right now."

"Well, how about this then? We've got a job: flying some MI5 people to Virginia so they can liaise with FBI counterparts in Quantico. They'll be here in an hour."

"Excellent. Martin, you file the flight plan and I'll do the walk around."

"You're offering to do the walk around?" said Martin, astonished.

"Well, you did just get dumped: I'm not totally heartless."

"Thanks, Douglas."

A short while later, Sherlock was on his way back from the tower when he saw a large Mycroft car drive into the airfield. When Carolyn had said MI5, it hadn't occurred to him that he might know these people. Surely Mycroft would have warned him? He ducked at the side of the nearest shed watching the car go by. It made straight for MJN's office and 2 figures emerged. To his great surprise, it was actually Mycroft and Anthea. What the hell was this? Why wouldn't Mycroft just use the usual jet? Why was he going to Quantico himself? It must have come up very suddenly for them not to have contacted him. Unfortunately, he couldn't ask any of these questions in front of the other MJN staff.

Carolyn was greeting the passengers.

"Yes, Ms Trelawny, we spoke on the phone. I'm Carolyn Knapp-Shappey."

"I thought you might be," said Anthea, with her usual tone. "This is Mr Ingamell."

Nods were exchanged.

"Won't you please come this way to the plane? The pilots are just finished their pre-flight checks and we'll be underway with 20 minutes."

Sherlock glared at Mycroft as he walked by.

"Gosh, Martin, I didn't realise you were so keen on sitting around doing nothing today," remarked Douglas.

"I'm not, I'm just surprised that government people wouldn't have access to their own planes."

"Well, perhaps they want to, literally, fly under the radar."

"Perhaps."

Sherlock headed for the bathroom, where he sent Mycroft a furious text "?"

Mycroft replied succinctly.

"Just grin and bear it. We'll have time to talk on the way to Quantico."

Sherlock had plenty of time to think during the long flight to Dulles International. He needed to manufacture a reason to escape his colleagues so he could go with Mycroft. He could say he wanted to go to the Smithsonian Air museum in Washington. Douglas would find that dull but Arthur would be far too keen. He couldn't use the old friend excuse again. If the flight weren't so long, he could have engineered a way to drive the passengers directly to their destination – Carolyn would love that but even she would draw the line after such a long flight. Finally, he had it. A text to Anthea was required and he accomplished this while Douglas was in the bathroom. It said "play along."

When Douglas returned, Martin announced he was just going to take a 5 minute break.

"That's unlike you…"

He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone.

"I know…but I was thinking about what you all said earlier on, and I really need to get over Molly…so I thought I might have a crack at chatting up our passenger."

"Really, Martin, I think turning gay might be somewhat extreme in the circumstances."

"Not him! The woman!" said Martin, fiercely. But then Douglas didn't realise he was suggesting incest.

"Ah, yes, rather a pretty one. Do you need any advice?"

"Thank you, but no. I think my own personal charms and the captain's uniform will do nicely."

Sherlock legged it out the flight deck door before Douglas could administer any further help. This would require a lot of acting skills: and then he remembered how he'd successfully conned Molly into believing his alter ego for so long. Chatting up Anthea would be child's play.

Arthur was in the galley, preparing some drinks.

"I'll take those down to the passengers, Arthur."

"That's my job, Skip."

"I know but, well, I really need your help, Arthur. I want to have a chat with that woman."

"Brilliant. How can I help?"

"Code red: stay in the galley."

"Will do!"

Martin sauntered down the aisle towards Mycroft and Anthea.

"Hello, I'm Capt. Crieff, I do hope you're enjoying your flight," he said in a loud voice.

Then lowering it, he said "Ok, Anthea, I'm going to smile in a minute and I want you to respond with a flirtatious giggle."

She inclined her head, smiling her omnipresent "I know better than you" smile but dutifully giggled appropriately.

"What's going on here, Sherlock?" inquired Mycroft.

"I am creating the diversion so that I may leave with you when we land."

"And the diversion is…?"

"That I've scored Anthea."

Mycroft twitched his nose and mouth like he was avoiding a massive laugh and mostly managed – though a big smile broke out over his face.

"Oh Sherlock, I really think you should publish a book when all this is done: ridiculous things you did in the name of taking down Moriarty."

"I think he's just wonderful," said Anthea, putting her hand on his arm and grinning.

"But there's something behind the cheeky grin…oh…she came to her senses then?"

Damn Mycroft being able to read him so well: perhaps there was something about siblings after all.

"I'd rather not talk about it when I'm pretending to chat up your secretary!"

"I'm a personal assistant!" said Anthea.

"Whatever!"

"Does she know or was a more mundane reason?" went on Mycroft.

"She does not yet know. Now tell me quickly why were are going to see the FBI in person."

"They have captured one of Moriarty's lieutenants. We are to be allowed interrogate her personally."

"That's brilliant!" said Sherlock. Apparently Arthur was rubbing off on him. "Who is it?"

"It's Irene Adler."

Damn it.

"Fine," he said, dropping his persona for a moment.

"Be sure and send me some sort of flirty note later, Anthea," he continued, as he let his hand rest briefly on her shoulder, and then he went back to the flight deck.

An hour later, after Arthur had served a passable shepherd's pie, he knocked on the door with coffee.

"Oh and skip, the lady passenger asked me to give you this note!"

"Thank you, Arthur."

"Aren't you going to open it?" asked Douglas.

Martin looked from one to the other and decided he'd better.

The note contained her phone number, the address of a hotel in downtown Washington and three kisses.

He held it up for inspection.

"Martin! Very well done. I am impressed. You'll be over the other one in no time. Arthur and I will take care of GERTI while you're gone!"

Sherlock smiled both outwardly and inwardly. Why hadn't he realised sooner that Douglas would always be on side if he though scoring pretty girls was on the table?


	18. Room Service

The plan had gone well. Sherlock had escaped Arthur and Douglas on the pretext of going out with Anthea.

Mycroft, Anthea and Sherlock now sat in a chauffeur-driven black sedan, headed for Quantico in Virginia. He'd had time to change out of his pilot's uniform into civilian clothes.

"How was Adler apprehended?"

"Too easily. We suspect she gave herself up willingly but refused to talk to the FBI. In fact, she said she'll only talk to you, Sherlock. What hold do you have on her?"

"I'm the only person who ever turned her down?"

"Well, try some charm this time: she obviously has intelligence to pass on."

"She's hardly still involved though. She was in with Jim Moriarty – we have no evidence of her involvement with Jamesy," Anthea pointed out.

"She must have something."

They arrived at the headquarters of the FBI and were shown to an interrogation suite. Mycroft and Anthea were to wait on one side, where they would be able to hear and see the interview. Adler was brought in to the other side of the room, wearing an orange jumpsuit. Her legs were in shackles and her hands were cuffed and then clipped to the table when she sat down. Sherlock briefly grinned at the notion that she probably enjoyed being tied up more than most prisoners. He nodded at Mycroft and then entered the room.

Irene looked up as the door opened. She grinned broadly.

"I knew you weren't dead. You could have texted. I texted you."

"Only under duress from John."

"Dear Dr Watson. How is he? Oh wait, mired in grief because he thinks his best friend is dead."

"Orange suits you," replied Sherlock, changing the subject immediately.

"Oooh, he doesn't want to talk about John," said Irene, looking at the mirrored wall. "Who's back there? Mycroft?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Now why have you brought me here?"

"I grew nostalgic for our time together. And now look, here I am, all tied up for you like a delicious present. Shall we get room service?"

"Oh stop playing games, Irene. What do you know about Moriarty and his brother?"

"Figured that one out, did you? Well done."

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table and looked at her expectantly.

"What the hell…I've never met his brother but Jim was quite the pillow talker. He mentioned his back-up plan with the woman who looks like your pathologist, and what they would do to the real one if…"

"They have a plan to do something to Molly?" he interrupted.

"Of course they do. The only woman who counts in Sherlock Holmes' life," she said, a twinge of regret in her eyes.

"What else do you know? Where is Moriarty now?"

"London, I presume. Hidden better than Bin Laden, I'd guess. All I know about the plan is that Molly will receive a package. I don't know when. I don't know what it is. I don't know what their end game is but I'd say it involves you suffering, either actually or by making someone you love suffer."

"Why come to us now? What do you have to gain from it?"

"They crossed me one time too many. I've had enough of the Moriarty brothers."

Sherlock wasn't sure he bought it but emotion clouded his judgement. He crooked an eyebrow up at her to show his doubt.

"You want more reasons? I want to see your name cleared. I want to see your happy ending where you get the girl…and the guy back. I've been watching your pathologist too…I know the game you've been playing. It's dangerous, Sherlock. You won't get her back without a grand gesture. And what's grander than saving her life after she saves yours?"

"What do you get from this?" he asked again.

"Immunity. I want to operate my business again, here in the USA."

Sherlock glanced over to the two-way mirror, despite its inability to reflect Mycroft's expression.

"It's not enough, Irene. We know Moriarty has a plan involving Molly already. What else do you know?"

"Nothing about this…but I'm sure there's other information the Americans would like."

"Dull. I'll send someone else to question you. If your intell pans out, we'll talk terms."

He stood up to leave.

"Aren't you going to kiss me goodbye?"

He regarded for a moment, thinking how different his life could have been if he'd accepted her offer in Pakistan. For all of the trouble since then, he'd made the right decision.

"Nope."

He left the room and returned to Mycroft and Anthea.

"I already have people watching her. She's still in Plymouth but likely to return to London today."

"Time for you to resume being Martin then," said Anthea.

A couple of hours later saw Martin heading back to the airport. Anthea had insisted on returning with him to keep up the front. She drove. She used the time to remind him about various activities he need to do.

As they pulled up outside the hanger, she laid a hand on Sherlock's wrist to stop him from exiting the vehicle.

"Yes, I will get my hair dyed in one week's time! What else do you have to pester me with?!"

"Just one thing," she said, pulling him into an embrace. As her mouth descended onto his, she whispered "play along: they're watching". Sherlock returned the kiss with as much passion as he could muster, which wasn't a lot, considering their long term connection. It was a bit like kissing your cousin. Suddenly he felt her hands in his waistband. She pulled his shirt out, and then tugged his tie out of alignment. "Oh my god, Anthea, enough! Get your hands off me!" he whispered, while maintaining a soppy look on his face. She relinquished control. "Alright, off you go!" Sherlock straightened his coat and got out of the car, jumping as he felt her hand on his arse one last time.

Douglas and Arthur had massive grins on their faces when he approached. Arthur's hand twitched like he wanted to high five but he resisted.

Molly returned to London that afternoon. As she went through her post, she saw a delivery docket had been left for a package. Since she wasn't working until tomorrow, she walked down to the sorting office to collect it. Mystery packages were always fun. Just for extra devilment, she waited until she got back home to open it. It was a small cardboard box about 25cm square. No return address. Weird. Inside was a bottle of red hair dye and a pair of brown contact lenses, the sort you wear for fun to change your eye colour. What did this mean? She looked again at the box: definitely addressed to her. Toby jumped on the counter to demand food and Molly shrugged off the strange package to attend to the cat. She wondered had she won a competition…


	19. Suspicious Minds

**Just a little short chapter but the next will be out very soon.**

Mycroft was working late the same evening when the latest surveillance on Sherlock's associates came in. As he scanned the photos of Molly returning with a box, he quickly reached for his phone and dialled Sherlock.

"She got a package. Photos of her carrying it unopened today," he said, cutting straight to the chase.

"What was in it?"

"Are you sitting down?"

"Just tell me."

"Hair dye and contact lenses."

"As in…"

"Yes."

Sherlock exhaled loudly and Mycroft heard him kicking something.

"How do you want to play it?" he asked finally.

"Go visit…check up…she may not have figured it out yet. Don't mention the package unless she brings it up."

"Ok."

They hung up. Sherlock let out a stream of uncharacteristic expletives. He really wanted to go straight to Molly's house, explain the whole thing, beg for forgiveness and wait for a response. But no doubt that was what Jamesy wanted him to do.

Molly was still thinking about the strange package when she went to work the next day. No autopsies were scheduled but she had a pile of paperwork to catch up with. To her mild surprise – she was getting less shockable as the, now years, of deception went on – Mycroft appeared in the morgue after lunch.

"Miss Hooper, I was just in the hospital visiting a friend and I thought I'd pop down to say hello, see how you were?"

"It's Doctor…and couldn't you just have checked your surveillance feed?" she said cynically, but not unkindly.

"It's no substitute for a face to face visit. How was Plymouth?"

"Fine. I'm sure you already know I broke up with Martin."

"One did detect a certain amount of unhappiness. I presume my brother is the cause, as usual."

Damn them and their abilities! She thought.

She grimaced.

"It's a special skill: I haven't seen him in over a year and he still has this effect on me."

Mycroft said nothing.

"Since you're here, ponder this. I got a package in the post. No message just hair dye and coloured contact lenses. No return address. What do you reckon?"

"Could you have won a competition?" he suggested.

"See that was my first thought but I haven't entered any competitions."

"Curious."

"Do you think it could be related to Sherlock – I mean, his work?"

"It's a possibility. Would you like me to take it away and have some tests run?"

"Well, I didn't bring it to work with me! It's hardly a ticking bomb."

"Quite. I'll send someone round to your house to collect it." He held up his hand to stop her speaking.

"No need, we have a key."

"Of course you do. Tell your minions to put some water in a bowl for Toby then. So, how is he doing? Is the end in sight?"

"I believe it is, one way or another. We made some good progress recently."

"Is he well?"

"Miss, Dr Hooper, it is perhaps best for all concerned if we do not pursue this line of questioning."

"Right. Yes, well, I should get back to work. I'll let you know if I think of anything regarding my dress-up box."

"What did you say?"

"You know, a box you had as a kid to facilitate dressing up, wigs, your mum's make-up, funny hats…." Her voice trailed off as something tinkled in the back of her mind.

Mycroft saw the look and realised she was about to work it out.

"Very good, I'll be in touch, Dr Hooper." He turned to leave.

"Hold it."

Molly strode across the room and grabbed Mycroft's arm, forcing him to look down at her.

"Contact lenses and hair dye. Oh my god, I am a colossal idiot, aren't I?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. Would you please let go of me?" he tried to dissemble.

But Molly did not let go, and as Mycroft was about to discover, she was one of those people who became loud when annoyed.

"You are joking! All this time….I'm fucking Lois Lane. How could I not see it? What a laugh you two must be having about poor idiot Molly. You tell your _asshole _ brother that I expect to see him this evening at my house with an explanation. And you!" She let go of his arm and slapped him across the face.

Mycroft Holmes was not accustomed to being slapped. It hurt much more than he'd expected. He rubbed his jaw, nodded curtly and left immediately, before she could do further damage.

His curt manner continued with a text to Sherlock saying "she knows".

Sherlock wasted no time texting and deigned to phone his brother.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing, I assure you. She brought up the box herself, and in the course of conversation, she put two and two together correctly. I neither confirmed nor denied it but she asked me she expected to see you this evening with an explanation. And then she slapped me Sherlock. She actually slapped me across the face. I've been merely complicit in this. I'd go armed, if I were you."

Sherlock hung up.

If ever there had been a time to shout expletives, this was it. Of course, it was his own stupid fault. He'd allowed things to develop. He'd even pursued her.

For her part, Molly stomped around the morgue. She was more confused than angry. Of course, some things made sense now. She called his name in bed, and he hadn't noticed, because it was his name. Oh shit! She'd slept with Sherlock Holmes and not known it. But he had chased her. What the hell was his game? _Oh Sherlock…just you wait until I get my hands on you_, she thought.


	20. Temper Temper

**Chapter 20: Temper, temper**

When Molly got home, Sherlock was watching from across the street. She did not see him and went indoors. Sherlock thought it best to wait until she'd settled in, and perhaps had her customary glass of wine with dinner before he called.

Like he had once done with The Woman, he spent a while deciding his outfit for the visit. Molly was predisposed to doing his bidding if he wore purple, but his current Martin attire was purposely nothing like Sherlock Holmes' bespoke suits. After all, he still needed to be incognito. But as a concession, he left off the contact lenses. 30 minutes later, he strolled up her path and rang the bell. He heard her little feet fly down the corridor – she must have been in the kitchen still – and the door opened.

There he was. Dressed like Martin but now with Sherlock's bearing and mannerisms, as well as his lovely blue eyes. _No! Resolve must not weaken._ She said nothing and then slammed the door in his face.

Sherlock waited. He presumed she would return momentarily. He was not wrong.

Molly stomped back to the front door and opened it again.

"Get in here before someone sees you without the contact lenses!"

He followed her to the kitchen once more, remembering the first time he'd been here. Apparently she was too.

"Toby, you little traitor! You knew it was Sherlock all along and said nothing."

"What was he going to do? Leave a message in his litter tray?" said Sherlock wryly.

"I'm waiting for an explanation." Molly tapped her foot on the ground, arms akimbo.

Sherlock helped himself to a glass of wine. She'd already consumed half the bottle.

"What the hell, Sherlock?! Where do you get off playing me like this? You pretended to be this whole other person: this nice, sweet man, and all the time, you were lying to me! I slept with you! You let me break up with you! What a joke! I knew you were emotionally challenged but this, this is a whole new level."

"I didn't mean to….it started so innocently…"

She cut him off.

"The first time we met, when I bumped into you, I called you Sherlock! And you immediately pretended otherwise."

He could hardly deny it. "I had to maintain my cover."

"And then later, in the coffee shop, you didn't take my number, because you knew it already…I thought you were being cute and forgetting to ask me for it! Oh I am the stupidest person of all time. And Toby!"

"You saw but you did not observe," said Sherlock, uttering one of his trademark lines, but quickly adding "exactly what I wanted" when he saw the angry look on Molly's face. Unfortunately, this second part did not make it any better.

"You complete asshole_._ How could you do this to me, Sherlock? Don't answer that – I know exactly how. But I do want to know why. What was in it for you? You could have _had_ me years ago…why now?"

They had arrived at the crux of the matter a lot sooner than Sherlock had hoped. He stalled by taking a sip of wine.

"Molly, I…missed you, I missed my life. When I saw you on the plane, you were different: more confident than usual, sassy even. You asked me out. I hadn't seen that side of you before and I began to wonder if it was me subduing it."

"Sherlock, I asked you out the first time I met you. I mean you you not Martin you. You just didn't notice."

He reached into his mind palace for the memory of the day he met Molly Hooper. Damn it all. She was right.

"Well that just proves my point then. Apparently, being around me suppresses your natural personality."

"Sherlock, this is not "analyse Molly-time", this is "Sherlock grovels so that Molly doesn't turn him in or murder him-time"."

"Who would you turn me in to? There's no crime in faking one's own death, unless insurance fraud is the game."

Poor Sherlock. Yet again the wrong thing to say. What would John do?

"Molly, I apologise most sincerely for deceiving you so grievously. The truth is that I never expected to see you again as Martin after that day in Edinburgh but when we bumped into each other back in London, I couldn't help myself…particularly when you mentioned John. Mycroft and I purposely decided that I would not keep tabs on my old life. I was so hungry for news, and there you were, passing it along merrily, guarded yet protecting me in your own sweet way. I began to see you differently."

"Well, that'll happen when you see someone naked, and use them horribly!" she said bitterly.

"I would never use you."

"Oh really? What about all those times in the morgue when you wanted things? You manipulated me and I let you."

"Well, I didn't mean those times. I meant I would never use our relationship that way."

"Sherlock, we don't have a relationship. We have a massive lie, wrapped up in the manipulation of the century. I just don't understand why. You used to talk loftily about being married to your work."

"I was an idiot."

Molly blinked at him. He sounded earnest – but then he was good at affecting sincerity.

"I…there was no game. After I had pretended to be Martin once, I had to keep it up because every time I saw you and didn't tell you the truth, it was compounded. And then before I knew it, I was falling in love with you, and then that was even worse, because now the risk was enormous. But as it turns out, it didn't matter. You saw through me without realising it. I ruined it." He put down his now empty wine glass on the table.

For a second, her anger melted. _He's in love with me?_ But then she remembered the turmoil, which would no doubt always accompany any Sherlock Holmes interaction, and knew she was better off.

"That's right: you ruined it. I think it's time for you to leave."

"Please don't be like this. I need you."

"You need me! Hilarious. We're done here."

Sherlock knew her well enough: there would be no tearful reunion this evening. She hadn't even reacted to his, frankly shocking, admission of love. Perhaps she would calm down if he left her alone for a while.

"I really am sorry, Molly. Please reconsider. And while you do that, think about who sent you that box, and why they wanted you to figure it out."

For a moment, he looked like he might try to kiss her goodbye, but then thought better of it.

Molly sat down on her kitchen floor and cried, far from the first time that Sherlock Holmes had left her in tears, but this time, in an entirely new and painful way.


	21. Upton Park

**Chapter 21: Upton Park**

Sherlock wandered the streets for a while after leaving Molly's. He truly had nowhere to go. Normal people would go to a friend's house for comfort. But he wasn't normal. And John still thought he was dead. As the clock struck 11pm, he found himself in Kensington knocking on his brother's door.

If Mycroft was surprised to see his younger brother, he did not let on. Sherlock followed him into the study, where a fire was lit, even though it was summer. Mycroft was wearing a dressing gown and smoking a pipe – the very picture of eccentricity. Sherlock sat down in a chair by the fire, taking the glass of scotch Mycroft held out.

"I told you so," said the elder.

"You did."

"I presume she took it badly?"

"You mean you weren't watching?"

"Some things are private, Sherlock. The reunion could have gone two ways, and in reality what happened was the more likely outcome, I had no wish to potentially see Molly and you be intimate."

The look on Sherlock's face told Mycroft all he needed to know. He'd obviously been clinging to the notion that she might instantly forgive him and hold out her arms.

"I did warn you…" he began, but Sherlock held up a hand.

"I don't want to discuss it, Myc." The use of his childhood nickname was jarring. This then was Sherlock as upset as he'd ever seen him.

"I'm sure this will sound trite but now you can focus on the work. It's time to finish and come back to life. Keeping you dead is exhausting."

Sherlock laughed in spite of his inner anguish.

"Yes, I've been thinking about something."

"The fact that the package wouldn't originally have contained hair dye and contact lenses?"

"Exactly. Jim Moriarty did not know my intentions before he met me on the roof. Jamesy must have changed the contents, which means that the plan has altered. I'm willing to bet that working on his own initiative wasn't in the original blueprint. Perhaps he's made a mistake?"

"Originally, they must have planned something that would hurt Molly – the result is the same, but it may have been physical."

"There's no point in trying to guess now, Mycroft. We'll start from the basis that the plan has changed. Your surveillance stays in place. What did your staff find from the packaging?"

"Well, we've traced it. Delivered to the post office near Upton Park tube station the day before yesterday."

"So Jamesy is a West Ham fan?"

"I suppose somebody has to be," grinned Mycroft.

"Do they have cameras?"

"Yes, he didn't deliver it personally. This man brought the package in: he paid cash."

Mycroft passed over some stills of a blond man aged about 40.

"Moran!"

"Yes, I was surprised too. Obviously, there was no prior evidence of them working together, but now we know they are, we can pool the intelligence on both parties."

Excited to have something to ruminate on, Sherlock and Mycroft reviewed the file on Moran, comparing it to what they knew about both Moriarty men. After a couple of hours, a few facts were clearer.

"Right, if this is all coming to a head, it's time for me to retire Martin Crieff officially."

"I agree: certainly, you'll have to remain in London for the time being. Shall I take care of it?"

"No, I'll do it myself. But I'll need a place to stay…"

"I'll have Anthea find you a nice safe house."

"What's wrong with this one?"

"Urgh, really, you want to stay here with me? It's not advisable."

"But it is secure, and the fewer people who know my movements the better."

Mycroft sighed, exasperated, but he knew Sherlock spoke sense.

"Fine. Now, about your other idea. Are you sure you want to bring John into this?"

"I think having John watch out for Molly is a good idea. He'll look after her."

"And what if she slips and tells him about you?"

"She won't. She's risked a lot to help keep me alive. She won't ruin it now because we are involved."

"Were involved. Alright. I'll speak to John tomorrow."

Mycroft called on John the following morning, as he breakfasted. It was strange to be back in Baker St. He'd expected John to vacate the place after the events of the previous year but after a brief spell staying with his sister, John had returned. Mycroft arranged to pay Sherlock's half of the rent, and had told John that Sherlock had left instructions to do so. He was in no position, either mentally or financially, to question it at the time.

John answered the door with a mug of coffee in hand. He was still in his dressing gown.

"Mycroft, this is unexpected."

"John, may I come in?"

John widened the door to allow him entrance.

"Coffee?"

"Thank you, no, I only drink tea."

"Well, teabags are over there, help yourself. What's up?"

Mycroft sneered slightly at the notion of teabags, particularly Tesco own-brand ones, but nevertheless made himself a cup of tea.

"It's Molly Hooper. You will be aware that I keep tabs on all of my brother's closest friends."

John nodded. A little thing like Sherlock's death would hardly stop Mycroft interfering in his life.

"She has recently broken up with her boyfriend, and is very down about it. I was hoping you might look in on her."

"I didn't know she was seeing someone. I just met up with her about 6 weeks ago. She didn't mention a guy. And it would have been topical because I introduced her to my girlfriend, Mary."

"I would surmise it was in the very early stages then but progressed quite quickly. At any rate, it was doomed and she is now distraught."

"I will of course get in touch with her today – but why don't you look in her yourself, Mycroft?"

"And remind her of my brother, another man who regularly hurt her feelings? I may have nudged countries into wars, and ordered the deaths of vicious criminals, but I would not wish to hurt Molly Hooper further."

So the Iceman had a heart after all, thought John.

They chatted for a few more minutes and then Mycroft left. His Tesco tea remained untouched on the draining board. John got himself together and headed for the hospital to call in on Molly.


	22. Valediction

Staring at 22 Oakdale Avenue, Sherlock pulled on Martin for the penultimate performance. His flatmates were home and he briefly called out a greeting to them before heading up to his bedroom. The packing took 10 minutes. Removing the wall of photos and evidence took a further half an hour. Everything fitted in one small wheeled case, which he now brought downstairs. Entering the sitting room, he found Susan, Nigel and David watching the news.

"No quiz shows?" he remarked.

"It's "Have I got news for you?" explained David.

"Right, well, I have some news for you too."

They looked up expectantly.

"I'm moving out. Got offered a job abroad…it's in Zurich."

"Gosh, Martin, this is very sudden."

"I know it seems that way, but it isn't. I didn't want to jinx it by mentioning it prematurely."

Nigel nodded. "We'll miss you."

"No you won't! You'll find some other grown up to move into the attic soon enough. I'm leaving you 2 months' rent money in case it takes a while."

He laid an envelope on the table.

"Don't spend it all on booze and pizza," warned Sherlock.

Susan got up and gave Martin a tentative hug.

"We will miss you," she reiterated.

"Keep in touch…send us a postcard from Switzerland," said David, holding out his hand.

After a few more platitudes, Sherlock made his way out of the house. It had been an easy lie. He'd need something much more sophisticated for Carolyn and Douglas.

Having left the van in town for Mycroft's people to pick up, Sherlock took a taxi out to the airfield. He wasn't due to work today but the others would be there.

As he got out of the taxi, he walked deliberately slowly. He opened the door to the portacabin and made his way inside, sitting down the moment he saw a seat.

"Phew, I made it!"

"Martin, what are you doing here?" asked Carolyn. "You're not due to work today."

"I know, but I wanted to let you know in person, so you could see how bad it is."

"How bad what is, skip?" said Arthur. Douglas looked up, interested.

"Well, I've been at the doctor. I've got vertigo. I can't drive, I can barely walk outside without feeling my head is swimming. It's awful."

"Oh that is very convenient. You just don't want to do the run to Seville tomorrow," said Douglas.

"No, it's completely true. Look, I have an official doctor's note and everything."

He handed the nicely mocked up note to Carolyn.

"It's true, Douglas, he's not to drive or fly indefinitely, due to an inner ear infection. It could resolve itself at any time. Martin, this is terrible."

"I know. You know how I love flying but, well, I have to consider my health. Will you be able to get someone to cover for me?"

"Someone who is willing to work for your salary? I doubt it! No, we'll be stuck doing short runs for the next few weeks til we see how you are."

"I feel terrible about this, but I can't do anything about it."

"Martin, are you sure you're not making this up?" asked Douglas.

"Douglas! That's a mean thing to say. Skip loves flying – it's his favourite thing. Why would he give it up? Especially after Molly breaking up with him like that! He's hardly going to say: I know what'll make me feel better – some days off work so I can mope around the place," said Arthur vehemently.

"I have to agree with Arthur. Martin wouldn't ground himself on purpose," added Carolyn.

"Why don't you just work in the office here while you wait to get better?" Arthur suggested.

"No, I'm actually supposed to stay at home, where I'm less likely to fall over things."

Douglas' eyes narrowed. "I'll drive you home now, Martin."

"Ah, thanks, Douglas but there's no need. I've got a taxi waiting outside."

"Well, I'll walk you out then. Wouldn't want you to stumble…"

"Ok. Right, well, I'll be in touch, Carolyn."

"Yes, look after yourself, Martin, keep us posted. If you get bored, I can send Arthur over to entertain you."

"Oh, yes please!" cried Arthur.

Douglas opened the door and waited while Martin hobbled through it. Once they were outside, he began.

"Martin, I don't know what your game is but it is definitely fishy and I intend to find you out."

"Really, Douglas, I don't know what you're talking about."

"I know you're faking. I won't rat you out to Carolyn but I do expect to be told the real truth."

Martin hesitated. He couldn't risk telling Douglas anything but perhaps he would accept a delayed response.

"Look, there is something but it's not resolved yet. Could I tell you in a couple of weeks? Promise I'll come clean then."

Douglas did not look happy but he obviously decided that it was the best he could get for now.

"Alright, but I'm holding you to it."

They reached the taxi door and Martin sat in. Douglas closed the door and did that very annoying 2 bangs on the roof to tell the cabbie he could go on.

Sherlock watched as they pulled away from the curb and that long interesting chapter of his life as a charter pilot ended. John would have a field day blogging about it, hopefully sometime soon.


	23. Waterloo

Molly was back at work. It was good to have her brain occupied. Less time to spend thinking about Sherlock. She had just popped up to get a coffee and was on her way back to the morgue when she ran into John.

"John! What are you doing here?"

"Hi. I was dropping off some test samples to histology for a patient and I thought I'd see how you are. I meant to call you sooner – Mary really liked you."

"I thought she was lovely, John. You're great together."

He smiled happily – only too pleased to discuss his girlfriend – and of course giving him an opportunity to segueway into asking about Molly's own love life.

"And what about you? Any love affairs of note?" he said jocularly.

Molly's face fell.

"Oh, well, actually, I was seeing someone for a while, but it's over now."

"What happened?"

"The ghost of Sherlock Holmes looms large…shall we say?"

"If he wasn't dead, I would punch him for you. Even now, you're still his."

"Even now," she echoed glumly.

" I'm sorry, Molly. That's awful. Would you like to have dinner with me and Mary this evening?"

"Don't take this the wrong way, John, but I'm not up to spending time with a loved-up couple right now."

"Of course, that was thoughtless of me. Well, how about just me then? We could catch a movie?"

"Yeah, ok. Why not. Let's meet under the clock in Waterloo at 7."

"I shall look forward to it."

"Me too. I'd better get back to work. I've had a lot of time off recently."

"Indeed. I know that Mike Stamford is a slave driver of a boss!"

John sent Mycroft a text updating him and went on to work. He had an early dinner with Mary, explaining his evening plans. She understood of course and sent her love to Molly.

Molly left work on time and grabbed a burger and chips before hoping on the tube to meet John at Waterloo. The evening commuter traffic had begun to thin out but the massive station still hummed with people.

Neither John nor Molly was really aware of just how many people were watching them. Mycroft had a team of his people shadowed both doctors at all times. Molly knew that about these people, of course, but she didn't know that they were a rotating group of 3 men and 2 women who followed her around the clock. They had been her constant, secret companions since the day of Sherlock's suicide. John's team was bigger and he was entirely unaware of them, as well as blissfully ignorant of the assassin, sent by Moriarty, who watched him still, albeit mostly remotely by tapping into London's extensive CCTV network.

Tonight other people watched them too.

Sebastian Moran and Jamesy Moriarty's end game was in sight. They were both stationed in Waterloo, willing and ready to kill both John and Molly. Moriarty's elaborate plan with Molly had been massively hindered by his own death, leading his less clever brother to change parts of it. Hoping to draw Sherlock out into the open, he saw this as the best opportunity. He'd known it was only a matter of time before they met up again, and with his own surveillance in place, he'd had a day to scout locations around Waterloo before they met.

Mycroft Holmes sat in the station's control booth, cameras trained on the elaborate antique clock. His people were positioned on every exit and turnstile in the large building. If Moriarty, or anyone else, was here, he would not escape. Mycroft saw John arrive a bit early.

One final person watched as John greeted a tardy Molly with a kiss on the cheek. The ghost of Christmas past had shaken off his alter ego, had his hair returned to an approximation of its natural colour, ditched the contact lenses and donned a familiar coat and scarf. Sherlock Holmes was back.

The plan to use Molly and John as bait was risky but there were a lot of people around them, ready to protect them if things got out of hand.

John and Molly were checking out cinema times.

"Well, we might make the 745 showing in the Odeon, if we catch a quick tube…" he was saying.

Suddenly, all of the large television screens displayed the same image: a test card, which quickly dissolved into a photograph of Jim Moriarty. Underneath it read: gone but not forgotten.

Molly clutched John's arm and pointed.

"What the hell is this?!" exclaimed John.

A voice with an Irish tinge, not unlike Jim's, rang out, silencing the evening commuters.

"That is a very good question, John. Don't move, there's a good boy. You too darling Molly. My guys have guns trained on you. Just stay put and watch this little video."

John looked at Molly. She began to realise that something major was about to happen.

Sherlock was close at hand but he sensed it was too early to reveal himself.

Mycroft watched from the control room, as Jamesy's video began to unfold.

It began with a series of photos: Jim, Sherlock, Jamesy and Matilde. Molly and John both gasped when they saw this last. Molly recognised her, but John's reaction was to her resemblance to the woman beside him. The next shot was of a red-haired pilot who looked a bit like Sherlock.

"Who's that guy?" asked John, through gritted teeth, but Molly shook her head.

The next image was of Molly and that man. He was leaning against a wall, kissing her.

"This is your ex?"

The voice rang out again.

"Oh wait for the reveal, John: you won't believe it!"

The screen split in two – the image of Molly and her boyfriend on the left was now joined by an image of Sherlock on the right. A series of pointers appeared on both sides and it became clear to John that they were highlighting features.

"What is this?"

"John…" began Molly, urgently.

"Oh John, do you not see it yet?! So ordinary. Your best friend is not dead! Look, there he is in Molly's arms."

John shook his head.

"No. That photo could have been faked." But one glance at Molly's stricken face was enough to cast doubt.

"Who are you? Show yourself!" he shouted, turning in a circle and then back to face Molly.

"I am James Moriarty!" The amplification was gone. A man had appeared out of the mesmerised crowd and walked towards them, holding a gun.

"Huh?" John and Molly were jointly confused.

Another man appeared beside this "James Moriarty".

"Jamesy, you've confused them. But then I suppose most people don't expect two brothers to have the same first name."

"Wait, you're Moriarty's brother?" clarified John.

"Give that man a prize. Yes, John. I am his older brother. And I am here to make Sherlock Holmes pay."

"How can you make Sherlock pay? He's gone…are you crazy too? Does it run in the family?"

"Well, it does actually but you haven't paid attention to my little slide show. Your precious detective is no more dead than you or I."

"Don't be ridiculous!"

"John, I can explain," started Molly.

Moran and Moriarty were now just 10 metres from them.

Suddenly, someone jumped up on the bench where John had sat waiting just a few minutes before. Moran and Moriarty raised their guns jointly, forcing everyone to look around at the newcomer.

John 's view moved upwards and he found himself looking Sherlock Holmes in the eyes. His face was the very picture of steely nerves as he held a gun in both hands, pointed at the others. John staggered a little with the shock and Molly gripped his arm.

Moran and Moriarty were having some whispered discussion, which ended with Jamesy saying

"No! I've had enough of it all, Seb…let's just shoot and be done with it."

He raised his gun, pointing it directly at Sherlock, and shot.

Sherlock took the bullet square in the chest and fell backwards off the bench.

Many other shots rang out simultaneously. Chaos briefly reigned as innocent bystanders, along with John and Molly ducked for cover. The gunfire did not last and finally, the voice of Mycroft Holmes said

"You can get up now. It's over."

Moran and Moriarty lay dead on the ground. John slowly got to his feet while Molly dashed over to where Sherlock still lay, not moving. Was he ok? _Please God let him be ok_, she thought.


	24. X Y ?

John was feeling his skull, wondering if he could have sustained a concussion without remembering it. The alternative was hallucination because it sure looked like Molly was crawling over Sherlock's body. John saw flashes of the day over a year ago outside St Barts, trying to fight his way through the crowd to get to Sherlock after he jumped. He shook his head back to reality. Molly was unbuttoning Sherlock's coat and then she cried out with relief.

"John, John! He's ok. He's just knocked out. He's got a bulletproof vest on."

Mycroft issued some orders and came over to John.

"I know this will come as a massive shock. Why don't you sit down?"

John sat down on the bench and put his head between his legs.

Molly was undoing Velcro tabs to remove the vest from Sherlock as he started to come around.

"Molly?"

"Oh thank God…you're…I was so worried!"

He gazed up at her briefly…now was not the time to have their next conversation. His gaze slide past her onto John, seated on the bench near where he'd fallen. Sherlock raised himself on to his elbows.

"John, I am at a slight disadvantage here. Could you come over to me?"

The doctor looked up at the unmistakable sound of his flatmate's voice. He moved to kneel beside him, facing Molly.

"John, I know this is hard to swallow. He did it to protect you all," she began.

"It's true, John. Moriarty has had, right up until now, an assassin on you. The only way to stop them was to play dead."

"But…where have you been all this time? What were you doing?"

"There's plenty of time to tell you everything, once this immediate mess is sorted out."

"I don't know whether to hit you or hug you. I think might faint from the shock – not very manly."

Sherlock grinned. "Whichever works for you, my friend."

Mycroft came over and hunkered down.

"We're starting to disperse. Sherlock, are you still winded or can you walk?"

"If you help me up, I'll manage."

He got slowly to his feet, John holding onto one arm and Molly the other.

"Wait, Molly, you knew all this time."

"I did. I'm sorry for my part in the deception," she replied.

"I couldn't have done it without her, John." Through his shock, John heard the sincerity in Sherlock's voice but also a tinge of regret.

"Something happened between you, didn't it?"

"Not now, John," said Sherlock, sharply.

"It did. Sherlock decided to chase me, while pretending to be someone else."

"How did you not recognise him?" asked John, astonished.

"He was unrecognisable, John. Sweet, friendly, I thought honest too but eventually I realised the truth."

Molly abruptly walked away.

"What the hell, mate?"

"She dumped me because she realised she still had feelings for me and then was really pissed off when she realised I was me."

"That sentence makes no sense. Are you sure you didn't hit your head? Did I hit mine?" said John.

"Sadly, no. I will explain it all. For now, we must inform Mrs Hudson and Lestrade."

"What have they got to do with it?"

"Assassins on them too. Originally, I thought Moriarty had overlooked Molly, thinking her insignificant to me, but nearly too late, I realised that he'd always seen her importance, perhaps long before I did."

"I need a drink."

"Ah, convenient, there's Lestrade," Sherlock nodded in the direction of the detective inspector, who was talking to Mycroft. His jaw dropped open when he saw Sherlock.

"You bastard! I was suspended! Bloody hell!" he said loudly.

"Did you know about this?" he continued, looking at John.

He held up his hands.

"Nope, still absorbing it. Molly Hooper knew though!"

"Molly knew? Where is she?"

"She's slipped away in all the confusion," said Mycroft calmly. Sherlock looked ready to shoot off but Mycroft stopped him. "No, there's more to do here, I'm afraid. She'll keep."

"What am I missing?" asked Lestrade.

John shrugged. "I think we all need a drink."

Molly was only too pleased to escape the crowd. She knew it was only a matter of time before Sherlock came looking for her, so she hid. She went to the cinema, bought a ticket for whatever was showing and sat down in the dark. The movie passed without notice as she tried to sort out her feelings. Was she glad he was alive? Of course. Was she still mad? Probably.

It was 10pm by the time Sherlock could extricate himself. He'd told and retold the story. Mrs Hudson had cried, thumped him, called him a "bad boy" and finally hugged him until he couldn't breathe. The large bullet-shaped bruise forming on his chest didn't help!

He made his way to Croydon. Her lights were on. Like he had on his last visit, he stood outside composing himself. This time would be different. He was back now. He rang the bell with a nervous feeling in his stomach.

She was barefoot, her hair was down, and she had been crying.

"I've been expecting you," she said, leaving the door open and walking down the hallway.

They stood in her sitting room, not saying a word. Molly broke first. She leapt into his arms and then she was kissing him, as if it were the only thing that mattered. Sherlock could hardly believe it but there she was, running her fingers through his hair, her legs wrapped around his waist.

"I'm so glad you're ok, you're not dead, it's ok now, everything will be alright," she whispered; a litany of soothing statements. The words were insufficient but she couldn't be more articulate. "When I saw you fall, it was like that day on the roof all over again. And I realised I didn't care…I don't care about the deception. I know that Martin was entirely your own creation. It was you all along. I was too stupid to let myself see it."

A fat tear rolled down her cheek and Sherlock caught it with the side of his finger.

"Can we sit down? My arms are starting to tremble from the effort of holding you!"

"Are you saying I'm fat?"

"No," he replied sincerely.

They sat down on the couch, still entwined. Molly wasn't ready to let go yet.

"Molly, I do have to apologise though. I wasn't thinking straight when I pretended to be Martin around you. I thought I had total control of everything. I had to listen to Mycroft say he told me so several times."

"Oh, so that's what really upset you?"

"No. The thought that you might not speak to me again. That we'd never touch again."

"That you wouldn't be allowed in the lab again," she teased.

"That too."

"Sherlock, I have exactly one weakness and you've always known how to exploit it."

"I know: I'm sorry."

"I like hearing you say sorry."

"I'm sure I'll be saying it a lot more often in the future…if you'll give me the chance."

"You have to promise several things."

"Whatever you wish."

"No, I'm serious. You're never to lie to me again. You're never to fake your death. You're never to pretend to be someone else in front of me."

"That all seems acceptable."

"You're not normally this pliable, Sherlock. I'm suspicious."

"Perhaps I have had enough deception to last a life time?"

"What do you want then?"

"I want my life back…but it won't be the same. I want you by my side."

"You have me, you've always had me."

Sherlock caught her chin and leaned over to kiss her. A profound sense of relief washed over him as he realised he hadn't lost her after all.

Molly cleared her throat. Sherlock raised an eyebrow in query.

"There are more conditions."

"Go on."

"You should occasionally dress like Martin. I quite liked his more relaxed look."

"Shall I tell you a secret? So did I!"

"Good. Also, I want to be there when you tell the rest of the crew. It'll have to be soon, before the news breaks generally."

Sherlock groaned. He was hoping to get away without telling them in person, but she was right, it was only fair.

"Alright, but can it be tomorrow? I'm really tired," he asked.

"It can be tomorrow, but I have plans for you. They do not involve sleeping." She got off his knee, crooked her index finger and said "Come to bed."

"At least this time, you'll be calling the right name!"

"If you're lucky…"


	25. Zurich

"I don't know why we had to fly to Zurich," grumbled Molly.

"I told you: Carolyn, Arthur and Douglas are all there for an aviation conference. As you rightly pointed out, we have to tell them sooner rather than later," replied Sherlock. "Besides, it wasn't my idea to get no sleep last night." His hand gripped her bum and she jumped with surprise.

They made their way through the airport to the business hotel where the others were staying. They were in adjoining rooms. Molly and Sherlock had one to share. She looked around while Sherlock made the call.

"Hi Douglas."

"Martin, what's up? Are you better?"

"I am indeed, Douglas, and I have some news. Could you gather Carolyn and Douglas and meet me in the Reichenbach suite downstairs in 10 minutes?"

"You mean you're here in the hotel? What's going on?"

"I will explain everything shortly, as promised."

He hung up the phone.

Molly dived on him, knocking him back flat on the bed.

"10 minutes?! That's not enough time," she said devilishly.

He cuddled her for a moment, breathing in her fresh, clean smell. Planting a kiss on her forehead, he said "Come on."

Arthur, Douglas and Carolyn were in the appropriately named Reichenbach suite waiting when Sherlock led Molly into the room.

"Skip! Molly! Are you back together then?" exclaimed Arthur.

"Yes, we are," said Molly. She held out her hand to Carolyn, who had never met her, and introduced herself.

"I must say, _Martin_, you look rather different," said Douglas.

"Yes, perhaps, if you would all like to sit down. It's a long story."

The three crew sat quietly as Sherlock explained the 14 month deception. Arthur occasionally shouted "brilliant." Finally, he sat back, hands held in a prayer pose and looked at the three of them: waiting for a judgement.

"Well, I knew there was something wrong, when we saw you the other day, but I must admit, Martin – I mean, Sherlock – that I didn't suspect something quite so elaborate."

"What did you think?"

"Bigamy."

"Wife in Portugal?" said Sherlock with a grin.

Douglas nodded, grinning in return.

Carolyn had said nothing.

"Well, I think it will come as a surprise to you to hear that I knew already knew all of this."

Four heads shot around to stare at her.

"Mum! You never said a word!"

"Of course not, Arthur. You are rubbish at keeping secrets!"

"Mycroft?" asked Molly and Sherlock at the same time.

"Naturally. He needed someone to keep an eye on you, and not make a fuss when you went off doing your other work. I had to sign the official secrets act. So what do you think of your mother the spy, Arthur?"

"I think it's brilliant. It's amazing. But I'm sad too. You won't be flying with us anymore. We'll have to get someone else."

"True. But I can perhaps visit every now and then. Also, my brother has arranged a financial reward for your assistance, Carolyn, so perhaps you can actually pay my replacement?"

"We'll see."

Douglas was still not smiling.

"Sherlock, do not pay any attention to him – he's just grumpy that he didn't figure it out. And he'll miss you."

"I will not. But I will be expecting you to send me regular games by email."

"Deal."

After a lot more chatting and joking, Sherlock and Molly managed to get away. She slipped her hand into his.

"Let's go and see the waterfall. It feels an appropriate place to finish this episode."

"As long as you're not planning to push me in…"

"Of course not! I just got you back. I'm never letting you go."

The End.

**A/N: And so the end of one of my longest fics to date. I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thanks for all the reviews and comments. And thanks to Thinkswithpen for exceptional proof-reading abilities.**


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